


A Day in the Life

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But plenty of plot and character development alongside, Dad!Drax, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Kid Fic, Kid!Yondu, M/M, MacGuffins, Mostly fluff is what I'm getting at, Parent-Child Relationship, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, dad!peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 82,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: There was a bang, a flash, and a baby.In which the Guardians find themselves stuck with a pint-sized Ravager Admiral.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **New fic??? New fic!!!**
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> **Totally inspired by that one written by the lovely Capsing, which involved Peter, Drax, and a baby/omelette-in-the-making.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the Guardians acquire a(nother) baby**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gamora blames Drax. Drax blames Thanos. Peter blames Yondu – then changes his mind and blames Rocket instead. Rocket blames everyone involved in this flarking mission, the Collector included. As the Collector’s not here to defend himself, everyone decides he’s by far the biggest culprit.

All except one.

“I am Groot.”

“No, no, no, buddy!” Peter sweeps up the little tree one-handed. His other is occupied: massaging his temples to dispel the headache.

He’s glad Gamora offered to pilot. Their efforts at making profit at the Ravagers’ expense had disintegrated into screams, bright lights, and mayhem. After that, Peter doesn’t have the mental fortitude to face the asteroid-strewn trip back to Nova-governed skies – and anyway, Gamora’s already made it clear that she’d rather be as far from their youngest passenger as possible. Really, this works out for everyone.

But for now their second-youngest needs reassurance. Peter forces a smile. “It wasn’t your fault, Groot. You didn’t mean to.”

“I am Groot?”

“None of that. C’mon, guys. Let’s agree here and now. Not Groot’s fault.”

Drax frowns. “While I maintain that this is another of Thanos’s evil schemes, in lieu of his presence I must admit that Groot was the one to drop the item…”

“Which _you_ handed to him, although I told you he was too small to carry it!” Gamora’s gripping the joystick as if she’s imagining it’s one of their throats. Possibly all of them, compressed into a single stressball. “The item Rocket was supposed to be disarming, and Peter and Yondu were supposed to be steering well clear of, because it’s calibrated to affect idiots from the Silver Spiral galaxy. The item which the Collector commissioned us to fetch in the first place.”

Peter grins. “So I’m the only one who did what I was supposed to.”

The baby, left on a pile of smelly leather in the back seat of the _Milano_ , wakes from its nap. Discovering itself to be surrounded by unfamiliar faces in unfamiliar colors, it promptly starts to scream. Again.

Rocket glares at him, shouting to be heard. “And a fine flarkin’ job you made of it!”

Peter’s smarmy grin makes a dive for the agonized. How the hell do lungs that small  project so much noise?

Gamora maintains her stranglehold on the joystick, albeit shakily. She’s not the one Peter's worried about. Eardrums vibrating, he drops Groot in Rocket’s lap and scrambles after Drax.

The man’s a juggernaut of pure beef. Right now, he’s barrelled out of his chair and is on a direct collision course with the infant.

Despite everything; despite his confusion and his mistrust and his petty sense of loss, as if he’s been robbed of his right to be angry with the man who took everything from him and dared presume he’d be grateful; Peter can’t let that happen.

“Drax!” he roars. “You stop right there!”

Everyone’s surprised at the force of his voice, Peter most of all. Drax pulls up short, one flimsy plastic chair between him and his target. He turns to pin Peter with a glare so cutting it feels as if Peter’s insides have been excavated by the big guy’s kukri.

“You would have me ignore a crying child?” he asks.

 

Oh. Huh. Seems like a communication wire has been crossed.

"I know who he is to you," Drax continues. "But nevertheless, right now he is vulnerable, and in need of our help. Would you have me neglect this innocent, to sate your paltry anger?”

Peter points at the squalling bundle of blue. "You’re not gonna stomp on him because he’s noisy?”

“I wish he would!” Rocket winces as the baby’s cries ramp up a notch. Its eyes scrunch shut, and its hands – such tiny hands! – knot into cerulean fists.

A fighter even at this age. Not that his self-defence mechanisms extend beyond deafening them. Honestly, Peter’s just grateful Yondu’s too young to whistle.

The proximity of the massive grey man isn’t helping the once-and-future Ravager captain feel at ease. When Drax looms over him, the cockpit lights bounce from his scarified skull as if the flames etched there have actually begun to smolder.

The baby rolls its head bonelessly to one side. Its angry screams devolve into hiccups. Shuddery wet hiccups, accompanied by a sluice of tears.

“I am Groot!”

Rocket scowls at his companion. “I ain’t taking it back! Still think the ugly blue sod deserves everything he gets.”

But he looks guilty, conscience provoked by that snivelling sound: the universal indicator of fear. He digs a claw into one furry ear, rootling around as if he can dig out the tinnitus.

“Least he’s quieter when he’s crying like this.”

Quieter, but so much worse. Peter doesn’t protest when Drax lifts the baby. He cups the soft blue skull in a hand that looks shovel-sized in comparison. He manages to make the action look tender. Yondu frets nonetheless. His toothless gums are smeared with snot and drool. He always complained about how much Peter leaked as a child, but given the amount of liquid seeping from his eyes – still plastered closed, as if they’ll all vanish if he doesn’t acknowledge them – he’s as big a hypocrite on this subject as he is on any other.

Peter wonders if Centaurian babies have any sense of object permanence. He wonders if they drink milk, and if so, where they’re supposed to acquire a suitable synthetic blend. He wonders if Yondu has any recollection of who they are and where he is, and is sobbing because he knows he’s among enemies; or whether he’s reverted fully to infancy and is stranded in a galaxy as scary as it is broad, a very long way from home.

Peter knows that feeling.

Swallowing, he pads closer. He’s been avoiding looking too closely at him. What he’s afraid of, he has no idea.

Is he worried his heart’ll melt at the sight of trembling blue fists and moist red eyes? Is it because he might forget everything this man has – will – put him through?

His obligations weigh on his shoulders as if someone’s dialled up the gravity, grinding him into the ground.

Yondu’s a baby. A helpless baby – more vulnerable than Peter’s ever seen him. Peter snatched him, along with the man-sized coat he’d slithered out of, as the Guardians sprinted for their exit. And now he has to take responsibility.

Things had seemed simple back then, as the bright flashes left by the device’s activation-mode receded from Peter’s vision. Now they’ve put distance between themselves and the Ravager horde, Peter has time to think things through.

He could’ve walked away. He could've left Yondu to his men. But what would they have done, had they stormed the hollowed-out smuggling moon where the device had been hidden, only to find it bereft of artifact and thieves alike?

What if they’d then discovered their leader, who had flown ahead with the promise that he’d deal with his Terran nuisance once and for all?

Worthless, frail, more vulnerable than they’d ever seen him…

Peter has a vague idea. It involves stewpots and meathooks, and Taserface, head of the _Eclector_ galley and chief tormentor of Peter’s childhood, laying dainty slivers of blue on plate after plate.

He shudders.

He can’t let that happen. He won’t. For now it’s him, the Guardians, and Peter’s shrunken not-dad. Happy families all around.

Drax angles Yondu away.

“Don’t crowd him,” he snaps, and Peter realizes he's been staring. But his voice gentles to a curious, crooning singsong as he shuffles Yondu into the crook of one mighty arm. "Calm yourself, child. You’re safe now.”

Peter knows Drax had a daughter. He knows, logically, that a guy so earnest and forthright would’ve been actively involved in her upbringing.

(No such thing as pink-and-blue chores in the Andromeda galaxy. Peter’d discovered that the hard way, aged eight and in charge of his first scrubbing brush. He’d complained that cleaning was for girls – and promptly had the entire masculine Ravager workforce turn on him and threaten to make him eat his sponge.)

But despite this, Peter’s still terrified. Drax is massive. A stars-damned bull in humanoid form.

Peter’s no waifish thing himself. But while he’s of a height with his companion, there’s at least fifty pounds weight-difference. And Yondu's  _so small._

It’d take one squeeze, one too-hard poke… Bye-bye, little blue scream-machine.

“Be careful,” he pleads. “He’s so tiny. Don’t hurt him.”

“I will not,” says Drax, with the certainty only a species with no concept of falsehoods could muster. “I never will.”

That’s a little further than Peter would go. Drax tilts his head to a contemplative angle.

“Unless he returns spontaneously to adulthood, in which case I shall defend myself and all of my friends against him.”

Much better. They have no idea how this contraption of the Collector’s operates. They could face a fully grown Centuarian any second, and Peter bets that the Ravager Captain won’t be pleased to find himself being carried about bridal style in his birthday suit.

Speaking of birthdays… “How old is he?”

Rocket grimaces. “Hopefully,” he says, “Old enough that he don’t shit himself.”

And either Centaurians develop language-comprehending capabilities at an incredible rate or Yondu has an impeccable sense of timing, because he chooses the ensuing silence to answer that question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hope you enjoyed! Please comment.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Drax is very naked, Peter is very distracted, and Yondu is very adorable.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Help me, I'm in love with lil' babby-yondu**

Drax takes it well, excusing himself to shower. Peter, left in charge of the damp baby – Rocket claims his claws are too sharp, Gamora’s still treating Yondu as if he’s contagious, and it wouldn’t be fair to task this to Groot, even if it  _is_ technically his fault – is significantly less amused.

“Flark you,” he tells the infant. “I hope you remember this when you’re back to normal. Because I sure as hell ain’t letting you forget.”

They have, with far too much reliance on Drax’s expertise, decided that Yondu is two months old. In Terran terms, that is. The phrase will have been translated through each of the Guardians’ implants into a species-compatible age enumeration they all understand. And, unless Yondu’s a far better actor than Peter gives him credit for, he’s reverted mentally as well.

For a moment, as he raids Drax’s closet and selects one of the never-worn shirts to use as a makeshift mop and another for a diaper, Peter considers the possibility that this is all a trick. Any moment now, Kraglin’ll abseil from the ceiling panels with captain in tow, both laughing their sorry asses off. But a closer look at the baby convinces him.

No mistaking it. From his facial structure – rugged as an adult, disturbingly cute when padded with puppy fat – to his glare, as Peter wipes him off, he’s Yondu through-and-through. Although really, he has no excuse for being ornery. Peter’s got the worst end of this deal.

“Oh god,” he moans, pinching his nostrils shut. “Why me? If Drax kills me over this shirt, I’m going to haunt your sorry, stinky little ass. You hear me, Yondu? I’m gonna knock over your dashboard toys, blow on your implant – not that you have an implant yet. All that stuff you hate… Oh no. No, I didn’t mean it. H-hey, I’m only joking; please don’t start crying again…” Peter’s pleas are ignored. Yondu balls his fists and opens his mouth. The cabin’s overhead solar panels illuminate every ridge, every divot where a sharp yellow tooth will one day grow, all the way back into his throat. It spasms in preparation for the scream.

Peter clamps a hand over it. “No! No, no, nonononono –“

Flark, he’s so small. Peter’s reminded, disturbingly, of the time mom taught him how to crack an egg. Peter had tapped it too hard on the jug’s grass rim and shell and yolk and slop had splattered the worktop.

He hastily removes his palm, moist from Yondu’s breath, and breathes a sigh in relief when he sees that his skull remains whole – and his mouth shut. From the times Yondu punched him, wrestled with him shirtless, or even drew him in for the rare hug, Peter knows that his skintype is reptilian: constructed of a million microscopic scales, too small to see but just rough enough to scratch if you stroke them in the wrong direction. Means he’s a fair bit more durable than Peter and the other fleshly mammalians. He can plow his M-ship nose-first into the dirt and walk away unscathed.

Now though, he’s not tough in any sense of the term. Peter’s scared he’ll dent him if he picks him up. There’s no other choice, however. Not after Yondu overcomes his surprise at Peter using his hand as a pacifier, and once more begins to bawl.

Drax re-enters not a minute later, glossy with condensation and despicably masculine. Peter notices this because Drax is also naked.

No wonder Yondu screams louder. He spins the two of them away, rocking the squirming Centaurian against his chest.

“Christ! Drax, we’ve talked about public nudity –“

“You said that only Gamora was allowed to wander the halls thusly, upon which she hit you and declared that you were a fool and a scoundrel, and deserved to be keel-hauled.” He examines Peter’s posture. “While I find her choice of punishment extreme, I must second it. You are holding him far too tight.”

“And you,” Peter squeaks, as a very large and very firm body closes on him from behind, manipulating his arms until Yondu isn’t crushed to his shoulder but instead draped over it like a warm and noisy towel, “are still naked. Very, _very_ naked…”

“My apologies, Peter Quill. I did not realize that my nudity would be so upsetting to you. I also assumed that I would find our quarters empty, and – are those my shirts?”

Okay. This is how he dies. With his spine locked to an abdominal panel so defined that Peter can feel the muscles ripple as Drax breathes. Honestly, Peter thinks, there are worse ways to go.

He retracts that thought once Drax levers Yondu off Peter, makeshift-underwear and all. “Hey. What are you doing?”

“It would be better if you used different material.” Drax assesses Peter’s handiwork with a critical hum. “This is relatively unabsorbent. However your construction of the diaper is acceptable, for a beginner.”

“Gee thanks.”

Drax could heft Yondu about in a single palm. But he doesn’t, understanding the necessity of supporting a baby’s head. He dithers a moment, coming to a conclusion within his own mind, before giving Peter space to turn around. He guides him to crook one arm at the elbow. Then, with an effortlessness Peter wouldn’t achieve if he practiced for a decade, scoops Yondu over the gap, letting him rub his soggy face on Peter again.

Yeah. Peter’s not grateful at all. He tries to shift to a grip that feels more natural, with two arms underneath, but Drax shakes his head.

“Trust me,” he says.

Peter dislikes relinquishing control, even over the cockpit radio. Yondu’s of a size with that gadget, and marginally more important. “I’ll drop him!”

“I understand that you are new to parenthood, and ignorance is no crime. But I expect you to learn, Peter. If I find that you have neglected this child, I will be very disappointed. Now. _Trust me._ ”

Peter doesn’t want to know what Drax’s disappointment entails, either for his goal to live to a ripe old age or for his continued mobility. Taking a cleansing lungful of air, tinged rusty from the clanking oxy-generator in the corner, he nods and strives to emulate how Drax had arranged himself.

“Okay,” he whispers. And Drax lets go.

Despite that fortifying breath, all air collapses from Peter. For a moment he forgets how to replenish it. Yondu’s stretched from his hand, which cups his cranium like he would a china bowl, to his bicep.

His feet – tiny, _tiny_ toes – wriggle like blue sprats in a net. He doesn’t fall. He doesn’t thrash. He just lays limp and secure and safe, and Peter almost breaks and starts cooing to him in baby talk, before he remembers just who this is and what he’ll do to him when he’s back to his usual self.

He settles for staring at Drax instead. He’s watching him, taking in his amazement and his delight. He looks stern but pleased. His smile pricks the warm bubble in Peter’s chest, making it burst and flood into every extremity.

“Thank you,” Peter manages.

Drax closes the meager yard of distance. He’s no less nude, but at least Peter can angle Yondu to block all the important bits. Not that Peter’s a prude, but – he likes the ladies. Seeing another guy’s junk joggle about ain’t his cup of tea.

(Yondu’s doesn’t count, not in his current form. Peter had done his utmost not to peep at _that_ part of his ex-captain, if only for the sheer weirdness factor; but it’d been kinda hard to avoid while cleaning him to a point where he wouldn’t get nappy-rash.)

Regardless of Peter’s preferences in the bedroom, he can appreciate salient musculature when he sees it, and Drax is as ripped as they get without crossing into steroid-abuse territory. He has to swallow several times as Drax breaches his personal space. “Uh, fancy seeing you here…”

Drax shoots him a quizzical look, but ignores the non-sequitur. “You are adapting quickly to parenthood,” he observes, at which point all of Peter’s higher thought processes desert him.

Because that’s not what he is. No way in hell. He’s just a stand-in. A substitute; a surrogate until they find someone better-qualified… Or preferably, until they strongarm the Collector into reversing this. Parenthood factors nowhere in this equation. Peter wasn’t going to leave Yondu to the mercies of the Ravagers, but that doesn’t mean he’s getting maternal over the brat.

As he opens his mouth to inform Drax of this, Rocket bursts through the door. “Was wondering where you two’d gone to. Oh. _Oh._ Aw heck, I might not like the guy, but he’s way too young to be involved in that!”

Realizing what this must look like, Peter backpedals from Drax. This is harder when carrying a baby. Peter has more motivation to not trip on the scattered detritus that accumulates around every bunk but Gamora’s, but he cushions Yondu on his torso just in case he stumbles. Which happens, inevitably, on the vandalized shirt.

Chores on the _Milano_ happen in increments.

You peel off a sock.

Next morning, you kick it from the foot of the bed and onto the floor.

A few days later, you grab it and its twin, if you’re lucky enough to find a matching set, and punt them both at the laundry basket.

At the end of the week you gather the pieces that’ve missed their mark, with tweezers held at arm’s length if necessary, and dump them in the steam room above the shower.

So on and so forth. Peter, abiding by this timeless rule, has dropped the sticky, skid-marked garment onto the grilling that turns the _Milano_ ’s floorspace into a pockmarked hopscotch-pitch of sturdy and unstable panels. He regrets it now. He tips backwards, unable to flail with Yondu gurgling in his arms…

…And Drax catches him.

It’s not a deep dip. Far from the finishing move of a flamenco. But it’s mortifying nonetheless, especially as Drax has been caught with his pants down – absent completely, in fact.

Rocket has to lean on the doorway so he doesn’t fall over. He dissolves into a laughter-rocked puddle of fur.

Peter, a resplendent shade of raspberry, jostles out of Drax’s grip and shoves the baby at him. “You hold this,” he growls. “I’m gonna fetch your pants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave me comments! You know how much I appreciate them. x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which a visit is made and the Macguffin explained.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry it's been a while - had a bit of a personal family crisis. Thank you all for your patience! Writing this fic is such a delight, I honestly can't express.**

“Why’s he still crying?”

It’s quieter than it had been to begin with. But it’s still _there:_ unmistakable and desolate, a series of soft mewls that tighten on Peter’s heart like tuning clamps on piano strings.

Rocket’s made his excuses and stomped off to rejig the _Milano’s_ engine for the third time this month – and doubtlessly steal a bunch of semi-vital components for his own inventions, which Peter will only realize are missing when their survival depends on them. Gamora is steering them dutifully onwards, but her face is taut as an unstretched scar. She glowers out the cockpit glass and shatters space-suspended boulders across the _Milano’s_ forcefields as if they’ve done her personal injustice.

“It’s a simple pyramid of needs.” Drax bounces Yondu in arms that look more suited to crushing fragile things than cradling them. “Food, shelter, kindness. Then comfort, and amusement. We just have to work down the list until we discover what he lacks.”

Peter eyes the pair. Drax acts as a simultaneous shield and hammock for the petite blue body. Yondu nuzzles his pectorals, which rise above him in grey-green cliffs. He is, Peter notices, shivering.

Peter recalls how Yondu always wore at least three layers, even on the days when the _Eclector_ was balmy. How he dialed up the showers past scalding, and how he boasted an interesting anatomical facet that had earned Peter a smack to the back of the head when he asked about it as a child, back before he knew there was such a thing as _too curious_.

The same anatomical facet he can see right now, arcing a low parabola under Yondu’s itsy-bitsy nipples. A pouch.

“Aw shit,” he grumbles, and runs to the far end of the cabin.

“Peter?” Drax sounds upset, which is all kinds of weird. But today far exceeds ‘weird’, what with the sudden babyfying of Peter’s not-dad and Drax’s transformation into a nanny. He probably wants Peter to hang around and _bond_ with the kid, or something. “Where’re you going?”

“Just hold him tight!” Peter calls back, already racking his brains to remember where he stored his thermal gear. “Real tight, Drax!” Then, as an afterthought: “But not tight enough to break him. Just snuggle him up in those nice chest muscles of yours and keep him all warm and toasty until I get back!”

“You consider my chest muscles ‘nice’?”

Luckily, by then Peter’s dived headfirst into his closet and can pretend he doesn’t hear.

 

* * *

 

They’re on the road for Knowhere.

Then they’re angling the _Milano_ into a docking port, slick with mineral run-off, rotting garbage, and spilled fuel left by the last occupants. The _Milano’s_ jets whoosh as they contact the interior wall of the Celestial’s sinus, and another deluge of snot-like goop oozes forth to clog their landing gear.

Poor girl’s gonna need a bath after this mission. Especially as the turbulent entry had upset Yondu’s stomach.

This journey is no detour. The Collector’s repaired his display room, and over half of the glass tubes are once again occupied. Peter shudders as they pass them. Like icy columns stretching from floor to ceiling, each is compartmentalized into a trio of cramped, cylindrical cells. The interior lights are pallid green, giving the prisoners a sickly cast.

Some stand. Some posture, brandishing teeth, tusks and claws. Others – those who know better than to pray for escape – sit huddled on the floorgrills and stare morosely at nothing.

The Collector’s upped his security. Not even a blast from an Infinity Stone would take this place down now.

Peter’s glad Yondu fell asleep before they touched down, all tuckered out from dousing Peter’s cabin in milky sick. Drax had volunteered to stay with him and clean up, draping the makeshift sling Peter constructed out of old thermal bodysuits over his stomach.

Peter’s proud of his handicraft. All Ravagers cultivate a degree of sewing expertise – their uniforms become more and more customized the longer they run with the band, gaining slivers of rubber here, a ridged shoulderplate there. Peter’s glad to put his skills to use. Perhaps once they return to the _Milano_ – provided the Collector doesn’t provide a quick fix – he’ll set to making Yondu some clothes?

For now, he’ll leave the victim of their misadventure anonymous. Peter doesn’t know if Centaurians are rare enough in this quadrant to pique the Collector’s curiosity, but that’s a risk he’s not willing to stake Yondu’s newly-renewed life on. He thumps the device down on the table, careful not to jostle the activation panel. Last thing he wants is to make himself Yondu’s playmate.

“Here’s what you asked for,” he says.

Gamora and Rocket fall into line behind him. They don’t cut such an impressive squad without their heavy hitters – Groot currently being smaller even than Yondu, and Drax having allocated himself babysitting duty. But Gamora and Rocket make up for their size with ingenuity. The Collector’s not going to try anything. Or if he is, he’ll regret it.

“Now, how about you tell us why one of our own has been shrunk down to pint-size?” There. Nice and open-ended. The Collector will assume it’s Drax who’s been minimized, and they’ll go about their day.

The Collector, who has had eyes only for the device, glances up. His smoky, heavy-lidded gaze flits from Guardian to Guardian, counting, assessing… Then he frowns.

“The only one of your team who could’ve been affected in such a manner is yourself. As you have retained your years, I am curious as to who it is who’s been struck.”

“None of your business,” Peter barks before the others can speak. “How about you just tell us what it is and how to revert it?”

The Collector treats him to an indolent blink. “The reversion process will happen on its own, in time.”

“How much time?”

“How old is the victim?”

'Victim’? Peter doesn’t like the sound of that. “Under a year.”

“Interesting. It must have been a concentrated dose… And how old were they previously?”

Peter wets his lips. “Let’s say, hypothetically, about fifty.”

The Collector’s expression becomes a lot more knowing. Peter’s reminded of how long this Ancient has lived; how much he’s seen, experienced, and enacted. He knew the artifact was in the possession of the Ravagers. Of course he’s going to put two and two together. But the Collector doesn’t confront him about Yondu straight away. Instead, he settles low on his slung-back chair, furred ruff crinkling under his chin. He folds his hands over his belly, restraining himself from pawing the artifact over, eyes reflecting his greed.

“A long time ago,” he says in a husky singsong. “Long before the rise of the Nova Empire, my galaxy and your galaxy, Mr Quill, were at war.”

Apparently, it’s story-time. Rocket cuts to the chase with typical impatience: “Oh yeah? Who won?”

“Us, of course.” The Collector spares Peter an unimpressed crook of an eyebrow. “We blasted every hint of life back to primordial soup. Why do you think your people are so backwards?”

“Gee thanks.”

“This device was intended as an interrogation aide, but it also functioned as an effective weapon. It allowed us to devolve Silver Spiral species to their basest roots, accessing your memories – and your body – for a day every year of your life. Yet what you host is no paltry reflection of Udonta at the age he resembles. It _is_ him as a child.”

Peter loses the battle not to gawp. “What? It can’t be – I don’t understand. That’s impossible!”

The Collector shakes his head. “Improbable only, Mr Quill. Never impossible. If I killed him now, he would be erased from existence up until this point – meaning you would never have been abducted from Terra.”

A sharp inhalation. “Meaning,” whispers Gamora, “Xandar would never have been saved.”

Oh. Yeah, that’s a pretty big _if_. Peter swallows. “Flark.”

“Eloquent as always, Mr Quill.” Sighing, the Collector lifts the artifact from its plinth and turns it between his knobbly hands. “It distorts the timeline whenever it is used, causing damage to the very fabric of the multiverse. And thus it was banned. This is the last in existence.”

Gamora rests one hand on her sword pommel. “And you want it why?”

The Collector tries for an innocent smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “To keep it here, in my Collection. Safe from any who would abuse it.”

“But available for your own amusement.”

There’s a serpentine twist to the Collector’s smirk. “Why Gamora! If I didn’t know better, I might think you were accusing me of something unethical.”

Peter shakes his head before Gamora can reply. She huffs and glares to one side – then swiftly relocates her gaze to her boots, when she catches the eye of a Dark Elf, whose spidery-white fingers scrape mournfully off misted, mildewed glass.

“How long will the reversion take? That’s all we wanna know.”

The Collector lifts the artifact. It’s a steel cube – not an orb; Peter’s had enough experience with _those_ for a lifetime. If it weren’t for the strange buzz of power when you hold it, a staticky sensation that makes your teeth feel as if they’re vibrating, Peter would’ve mistaken it for a bit of junk left behind from the moon-vault mining. Judging from the Collector’s reverent stare, he disagrees.

“Fifty years. Fifty days.”

“That’s a helluva long time,” Rocket remarks. It probably seems like it to him. Peter had once hacked into Terra's primitive network structures, and checked the average lifespan of raccoons in captivity. He’d been disturbed by the results. “Ain’t there any way to speed it up?”

“Not without aging him out of existence. This device is exceedingly fine-tuned…”

Rocket shrugs. “That don’t sound so bad. Saves us one more problem in the long run –“ Gamora kicks him. “Ow! What the flark –“

She nods at Peter. Peter, who’s glowering at the artifact, shoulders wound tight. “No way in hell,” he says. “Me and the old bastard got history, but if I wanted him dead I’d’ve left him in that cave.” He exhales, nostrils flaring at the mere thought. “Fifty days,” he says, quieter. “We got this.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t got this.

They return to the _Milano_ , silent as wind-up soldiers. No one tries to hawk them market tat, or threaten them, or even pick their pockets. Knowhere’s in the Nova quadrant, and most laborers are of Empire-stock. To these banished, homeless creatures, the Guardians are all the more untrustworthy for their affiliation with the Corps. Yet while the miners' citizenships may have been revoked, making them outlaws fit only for the grimiest drudge work around, many have family who’re alive because of them.

It’s odd, being given such a wide berth. Peter was respected as a Ravager, and celebrated on Xandar - if only in the privacy of the Prime's capitol. But this? This feels more like a held breath, a space between heartbeats, a shell of tension ready to crack. Their only accompaniment is the clank and gurgle as spinal fluid siphons through Knowhere’s bored-out arteries.

That white noise is jarred by Drax’s scream.

Really, ‘Drax’ and ‘scream’ should be mutually exclusive. It must’ve been something else. A twisted hull plate buckling under artificial gravity. A miner dropping a pick on their foot somewhere far below. But Peter’s not taking any chances.

He ignores Gamora’s growl for him to hang back and let her, the hardier teammate, investigate. He sprints up the gang-ramp, metal singing under his boots, and storms through the _Milano’s_ dingy interior until he reaches the cabin he and his teammates share. He’s expecting the Collector to have lied. To find a fully-grown Yondu standing over Drax’s body, whistling his arrow in a deadly perimeter.

He doesn’t expect to find Drax alone, an empty sling settling over his front.

He turns to Peter, eyes impossibly wide and lost.

“He’s gone,” he breathes. And Peter’s world falls apart.

 

* * *

 

They march into the Collector’s showroom, all five of them. Rocket had wanted Groot to stay on the ship, where it was safe. But Groot had reminded him, in his limited language, that Yondu’s vanishing means the _Milano_ isn’t as safe as they think.

Peter’s glad. He wants them all together, all in his eyesight. He’s terrified of losing any more family.

“What did you do to him?” bellows Drax the moment they’re over the threshold. The Collector’s blast doors swing ominously shut at their backs. Peter makes to shush him, because if they piss off the Collector it’ll be harder to pry what happened to Yondu out of his lips than it would be to extract an Infinity Stone from Thanos's gauntlet. Then freezes.

Because there, held at arms' length by a thoroughly unamused Ancient, is a very blue, very naked one year old.

Yondu spots them. He gives up on his attempt to grab the artifact, whose shiny orange glow is infinitely appealing to juvenile eyes. Hanging limp in the Collector’s grip, he points at the Guardians with a pudgy, tiny finger and cheeps. Not whistles, but _cheeps;_ a nonsense baby-language better suited to fledgling birds.

“Apparently,” says the Collector grimly, “I will have to reverse our deal. I was not aware that the victim would reappear in direct proximity with the weapon. Please, take him and take it and get them out of my office.”

“This place is just your _office_?” Peter boggles at the glass cages crammed into the warehouse-sized space at the Collector’s back. He earns a glare.

“Yes. And it is not a space for children. Little savages…”

Drax rumbles. That’s a portentous sound. Like thunder on the horizon. The Collector’s new architecture might survive an Infinity Stone, but a Destroyer on a rampage is another matter.

“I think,” Peter says faintly, “that it would be best if you didn’t call him that. Can you please give him to Drax?”

“It would be my pleasure.” The Collector’s eyes are icy, and he wipes his hands on his ruff several times after he’s relinquished his hold. He must be waiting for them to leave so he can whip out his wet-wipes. What a fruit. Peter’s more than happy to leave him to it.

“C’mon guys,” he says, thumbing over his shoulder while he gingerly lifts the device. “Let’s get the tyke settled in.”

Rocket’s jaw has yet to close. It does so now, if only to shape his disbelieving spit of words: “He got bigger!”

“Yes, he grew. Babies tend to do that.” Peter’s headache is returning. He throws Drax a weak smile as the man packs Yondu into the pouch, which now strains to take his weight. He’s not _large_ -large, but he’s grown significantly from when they last saw him – with a higher crest, too. There’s even a miniature tattoo on his wrist, Peter notices: the first of the thirteen blue swirls that’ll adorn Yondu’s torso by the time he reaches manhood.

It’s a reminder that somewhere, at some time, even the most feared Ravager had parents. Presumably ones who’d loved him and nurtured him through the three-hundred-and-sixty-five approximate days that’ve passed since the Guardians last saw him.

Peter picks away at that dichotomy: the little Yondu burrowing into Drax’s warmth who’s cherished and adored by his people, and the mocking, leering blue a-hole Peter came to know, There’s a disconnect somewhere. And, as the Guardians are due a year-by-year slideshow of Yondu’s life, in linear chronological order, Peter doesn’t doubt that they’ll find out what that disconnect is.

Call him curious or just plain nosy, but Peter can’t wait.

He shoots Rocket a wink, as Yondu tests his newly breached incisors on Drax’s chest. “On the plus side, we’ve only got forty-nine days to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you like it, please leave a comment on it!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Peter panics, Drax consoles, and Yondu is still naked.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Heyheyheyyy, new chapter!**

“Will he always be starkers?” asks Rocket. He shrugs when Drax glares, as he has taken to doing whenever anyone says anything that could be construed as negative about their latest teammate. “Just wonderin’.”

Drax swings the naked toddler into his arms. Yondu squeals, claps, and sets to conquering Mount Destroyer – squirming out of Drax’s grip and scrabbling over corded rhomboids to straddle his beefy shoulder. He doesn’t seem perturbed by the height. Drax, on the other hand, grab his ankle as if terrified Yondu’s gonna take a headfirst swan-dive.

“At least at this age he doesn’t care,” Peter says. Not that Yondu would when he was older – a Ravager lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to modesty.

 

* * *

 

Yondu gets hungry halfway through Day 2. It’s a miracle it hasn’t happened sooner.

“How do you know what it wants?” Gamora calls. She’s barricaded herself in the cockpit. That part of the ship has been ordained as a baby-free zone; even the smallest inquisitive fingers can do a lot of damage.

“He!” Peter yells back. “And it’s process-of-elimination!”

That’s true to a degree. Yondu’s stuffed into the pouch, near-swaddled by the tight confines but warm and cosy. He’s in a clean shirt-diaper. He’s being rocked back and forth by Drax, who’s murmuring a lullaby in a voice better suited to shipping forecasts.

Peter might be nodding, but the one-year-old isn’t. He bawls in noisy bellows, interspersed with the occasional hitchy sob, and kicks at the sling until the fabric distends around his miniature fists and feet.

None of this necessitates that it’s food he’s after, but Peter’s certain his assumption is correct. Call it instinct, call it whatever you want. Peter, for one, blames the way Yondu keeps trying to latch onto Drax’s nipples.

Big the man’s pecs might be, but they’re swollen with brawn rather than milk. Yondu can suckle as hard as he wants; he ain’t getting anything out.

How long do Centaurians breastfeed? If males have pouches but females have breasts, does the father pass the child to the mother for their nourishment? Can Yondu take solids if he has teeth?

Peter’s ransacked the cupboard: there’s nothing that could pass as formula. Would be useless, anyway; there are universal medicines that children of any race can be given, so long as that race’s genome is mapped on the medisystems of the Shi’ar-Xandarian syndicate. Terrans are on that list – thank flark, or Peter’s time among the stars would’ve been shorter and far less comfortable. But he can’t find _Centaurian._

No wonder Yondu’s annual vaccines against the Andromeda Galaxy’s multitude of infectious cross-species diseases always took so long. They must’ve all required individualized tweaking.

…Vaccines he won’t yet have had. Peter knows a baby’s immune system is bolstered by mothers’ milk, but he still breathes a retroactive sigh of relief that he’d kept Yondu on the ship for his first day in space, only venturing outside for the duration of the walk from the Collector’s stronghold to their dock. Who knows what he might’ve been exposed to if they’d taken him sightseeing?

But the Guardians can’t live in a bubble. They’re as messy and unhygienic (with the exception of Gamora) as the rest of the Galaxy. Peter’s gotta contact the Ravager sawbones, who’s got all Yondu’s specs on disk. In fact, it’d be best to go whole-hog and kidnap her; get themselves a live-in nurse. First though… first he’s gotta find food.

“Peter,” says Drax. “You look frazzled. Will you sit down?”

“Sit? There’s no time for sitting! Can’t you see he’s hungry?”

Drax’s blink is uncharacteristically placid. “It is natural for a first time parent to worry…”

“I’m not a first time parent! I’m not a parent full stop!”

“You are to him whatever you choose to define yourself as. But if you do not stop flapping, I will be forced to make you.”

Peter doesn’t want that. Nobody wants that. Gamora’ll only complain if she has to scrape mulched Terran off the floor, and then everyone’ll be miserable.

Drax nods. "Better. Now, come sit besides me and let us consider our options together.”

Things’re easier, with Drax’s solemn voice directing him. Peter drops onto the mattress, which creaks alarmingly under their combined weight. He chucks Yondu under his drool smeared chin. His red eyes open, but while his wide-mouthed wails have lessened in volume over the past hour, they have yet to cease entirely. Only difference is, now he’s crying in scrunch-nosed gulps, while staring directly at Peter.

Peter hates it.

He hates it _because_ he hates it, because he can’t stand seeing Yondu so upset and needy. He hates it because all he can think of it how to comfort him, rather than the atrocities Yondu’s committed; his record that eats up several parsecs of Nova data-reel; the sizzle of radiation from a red-hot arrow tip, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck…

“Dammit,” he groans. “It’s finally happening. I’m getting sentimental. And it’s all Yondu’s fault. Flarking hell, he’s gonna laugh so hard when he realizes.”

Then punch him for turning soft. Although really, Peter’s not the soft one at the moment. A brush of Yondu’s bare skull, which has the child grizzling and pushing demandingly into the caress, proves that his skin has yet to lose that babyish quality. It feels like silk and tissue paper, so thin and delicate that Peter can see the blood pulsing at his temples.

Yondu promptly proves that he’s still the same wily bastard as ever by latching onto Peter’s finger. His fangs are sharp as a puppy’s milkteeth.

Peter squeals, wrenching free so fast he almost draws blood. “Ow! A-hole.”

The waterworks cease for as long as it takes Yondu to giggle. Peter wags his sore finger.

“Oh yeah, laugh it up, slugger. Wait until you’re all adult-y again and you see how many pictures of you I’ve snapped. I’ve got enough blackmail material here to keep me in your goodbooks for the next five years, at least.”

“You know he doesn’t understand you,” Drax rumbles, who delights in sucking all humor from a room. Peter blows a noisy sigh.

“Doesn’t change the fact that this is therapeutic.” He addresses Yondu in the highest, cutesiest baby-voice his vocal cords can wrangle: “Yeah, that’s right. You’re a nasty lil’ monster. I hate you almost as much as I hate treading on lego.”

“Peter!” Drax angles sling and toddler away. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

“You just said that he doesn’t understand me!” Despite Peter’s protests, he knows from one look at Drax that he’s not winning this argument. He gives Yondu’s buttonish nose a grouchy tweak. “Sorry, idiot. I hate you slightly less than treading on lego.”

Drax nods, satisfied, and Peter reaches into the sling, hand engulfed by rainforest-like heat, to fish out the sleeve of Yondu’s diaper and give him something to chew on.

"He’s teething,” he remarks, while Yondu latches onto the cuff button and laves it liberally in saliva. “So he’ll most likely be able to digest more than milk. But his mouth’s all sore. He… He wants soft food. Maybe fruit – I know he can eat that when he’s older. And something to suck on, right? Babies suck a lot.”

He says that last line extra-passionately, in the hopes that the double-meaning will slip Drax by. Sure enough, Drax nods along, congratulatory as if Peter’s aced a pop quiz.

“Yes, Peter. Babies suck.”

It’s no fun making jokes at Drax’s expense. There’s no one around to appreciate them, bar an infant who understands less of what’s going on than they do.

“We 've got some dry packet-fruit in the main living quarters. If we mix in a cup more water than usual, it’ll get mushy enough for Mr Fussy to handle. And if I look in the engine room, I might be able to find some rubber for him to gnaw.” He corrects himself as Drax’s approving look turns to horror. “Clean! I promise!”

Drax nods. Then, after a brief moment’s consideration, flexes onto his feet. Rippling green-grey muscle fills the dim-lit room. “We shall accompany you. Perhaps seeing the rest of the ship will distract him from his hunger.”

He’s taken to carrying Yondu about like a squirming beergut: thermal sling lashed securely to his front. The tiny body is entirely concealed, bar the blue face that peeps kittenish from the top. Yondu’s fin, now the length of the first segment of Peter’s pinky-finger, glows pink-red as he’s lifted.

In Peter’s experience, the crest only shines when an arrow-to-the-face is immanent. He does a check around just in case. But the arrow’s not the culprit this time; as the light recedes Yondu’s expression, troubled by the sudden shift in altitude, smooths. He returns to chewing his button, almost as if he’s tapped into Drax’s composure and soothed himself to match.

Peter hadn’t snatched the arrow up with the armful of crusty old leather he’d bundled to his chest as the Guardians sprinted for the exit. Back then, he’d only been capable of processing that Yondu had been there, and then he hadn’t. He was gone – perhaps irrevocably. Peter’d almost cried with relief when he realized that what he’d first assumed to be a disintegrated Ravager admiral was simply a deaged one – then quickly shut up when he remembered that he give precisely zero shits about the jolly blue bastard.

But what of Yondu’s arrow? It’ll have returned to the _Eclector,_ either as a memento or a potential sales piece. Who knows what the Ravagers have planned with it?

And on that note: what will the Ravagers be thinking, having crowded into their vault with guns bristling from every appendage, only to find neither prize nor captain? They know Yondu never goes anywhere without his weapon. Heck, he only takes his harness off to shower under extreme duress – mostly from Kraglin.

Kraglin.

Shit.

If there’s one person who deserves to know what’s going on, it’s the Ravagers’ first mate. Or newly-made captain. Peter prays the handover went smoothly, with minimal power plays from Taserface and his cronies, but suspects that’s wishful thinking. Whatever the current state of Ravager leadership – whether the faction’s splintered into warring groups or turned to all-out anarchy – Yondu’s gonna be pissed to high heaven once he’s back to his usual self.

Peter doesn’t doubt he’ll whip ‘em back into shape. It’s Kraglin he’s concerned about. And, he realizes, he should’ve been from the beginning.

Kraglin Obfonteri: a grotty, skinny-necked streetkid whose sadistic streak makes Yondu look angelic. He clings to life with the tenacity of a cockroach and has somehow defeated every obstacle in his path to become second-in-command of the biggest outlaw band in the quadrant. He has the sort of face, voice, and temperament that fades into the background. But that’s no excuse for Peter forgetting him. The guy’s practically family. More, to Yondu – and flark, what if he thinks Yondu’s dead?

What if he thinks Peter killed him?

Peter can be forgiven for jumping and clonking his head on the _Milano’s_ low-slung ceiling when the proximity beacons blare into life. “Flark,” he chokes, having guessed the perpetrator before Gamora’s yell.

“Ravager incoming!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **What a coinkydink**
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> **Please tell me what you think!**
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> ****


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu is determined, Kraglin is upset, and Peter is doing his best to get everyone out of this alive.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bab!Yondu is just the cutest.**

Kraglin’s mad.

Mad is an understatement. Kraglin’s rage is glacial-cold and terrifying, a thousand times worse than Yondu’s brand of frothy-rabid fury. If Peter doesn’t do _something_ he’s gonna kill the lot of them by ramming his M-ship into theirs and letting the oscillating shield generators sync until both vessels vibrate apart.

“Isn’t there something you can do?” Gamora calls to Rocket, who’s immersed to the waist in the cockpit’s internal wiring, a bolt clutched between his teeth. He lobs another over his shoulder without looking to see where it’ll land; it smacks Peter in the shin, leaving a greasy stain on his pants.

“Aw, I only washed these last month…”

Gamora tuts. “Did your mother never tell you to wear clean undergarments in case you were hit by a crashlanding space shuttle?”

“Bus, but same analogy. Although in both cases, I’d be beyond caring.”

“Thas’ cute an all,” growls Rocket, voice distorted by the bolt. “But can we get back to the problem at hand? Namely, me tryin’ to jig our shields so pencil-neck here can’t do no damage. Although in my opinion, he’s flarkin’ stupid to try, given that _he’ll blow up too_ –“

Peter assesses Kraglin’s beard. It’s overgrown and scraggly even by his standards. There’s a gaunt look to his face that suggests he’s foregone all sustenance, hydration, and slumber in favor of hunting them down. “I think,” he says slowly, “that might be the idea.”

Yondu chooses that moment to poke his head from the sling, tiny palm papping Drax’s chest.

“Abagagaba,” he says. 

The holo-projector’s radius is one square meter, so Kraglin’s visuals are limited to Gamora, who holds their vessel steady and plays chicken with a pokerface a statue would be proud of. He hears the noise though. His mouth makes a sharp veer for the displeased. “The flark was that?”

Peter hastens through the cramped clutter of cockpit chairs. He scoops Yondu out of his faux-pouch. Drax’s fingers tighten on his arm, as Yondu gurgles excitedly and kicks his dumpy legs like he’s running on air.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Up close, Drax’s face is tipped with sweat. It glistens over his broad nose, collecting in the wells under his narrowed eyes. Did he sleep last night? Probably not, as Peter hadn’t heard a peep out of their little guest.

Some are born with a knack for parenthood, some develop it, and some have paternity thrust upon them. Being of the latter group, it’s only natural that Peter should rely on Drax, who has both the experience and the will to deal with young children. That doesn't make it fair though. Peter smiles to reassure the frazzled Destroyer, hooking Yondu onto one shoulder as he’s been taught. He’s heavier than the first time Peter did this. There’s a comforting solidity to his weight, like he’d bounce if he dropped him, rather than break – not that Peter plans on testing that.

 

“I’m just going to show him,” he says. Then, when Drax fails to surrender his grip – “What harm can it do? If Kraglin comes any nearer, we all die anyway.”

Grudgingly, gradually, grey fingers slide from his wrist. Peter winces, rotating the protesting joint, and Drax’s eyes widen as he sees the bruises. “Quill. I apologize for causing you harm –“

“I know, buddy.” He appreciates it, but now’s not the time for long-winded declarations of intent. Equally, it’s not the time to contemplate how much Drax must hold back his monstrous strength whenever he handles Peter and Yondu – or to freak out over why that’s not altogether a turn-off. 

Kraglin’s face is raw. Not literally, like Taserface’s. Raw in a different way – too emotional, lacking its usual sardonic overlay.

Their video connection crackles at the closeness between the two M-ship forcefields. Static makes the image twitch and jump like a live wire. But even with the poor quality, Peter sees how red Kraglin’s eyes are. 

He notices that Peter is holding something. "The flark's that?"

Outside of the pouch’s comforting warmth, Yondu is lethargic and floppy. He’ll toddle about, with Drax’s help, but it’s never long before he starts shivering and demanding to be restuffed into his mobile cradle, squealing long spiels of happy nonsense when Drax acquiesces. Peter can see Drax’s fingers twitching to take him again: an instinctual yearning to keep the child content. But Peter can’t let him. Not yet. He shifts the heavy baby round to sit in his arms.

Yondu’s old enough to support himself seated, not requiring a cupped hand around the back of his head. Peter still makes sure he’s not going to fall if he suddenly thrashes, all too aware of Drax’s breath on his nape.

“There,” he murmurs, as Yondu cracks a gap-toothed beam and makes grabby-hands at the picture. The pixelated light refracts and splinters between his fingers, shardlike rays glancing in all directions as if the holographic screen has been replaced with a disco ball. Peter has to haul him away so he can see Kraglin’s reaction.

Kraglin, who’s rubbing eyes that look more tired than Drax’s.

“Am I hallucinating?” he asks. He’s trying to be blunt but it doesn’t work and his voice cracks with desperation. He wants to believe this. “Pete? What’s going on?”

And so, ignoring Drax’s warning grunt, Peter tells him.

Kraglin laughs. He must think they’re messing him – adding insult to grief. But then he notices Peter isn’t joining in, and gawks instead. “Flark. You ain’t joking?”

Peter holds Yondu up under his armpits in reply. Yondu’s almost nose to nose with the man he’s gonna name his second (and so, so much more), albeit separated by a few meters of the vacuum and several inches of titanium. He holds out his hands to Kraglin in the demanding way that Peter’s learnt means he wants a hug, and he wants one now.

“You’d better come aboard,” he says, as Kraglin stares at the baby as if he holds all the answers in the universe. “He’s still a bossy little shit, and if he doesn’t get what he wants none of us’ll have peace.”

Kraglin manages a faint smile. He reaches for Yondu too. His fingertips crest the display, making his features wobble in and out of focus. “Okay,” he whispers croakily. “Gotta follow cap’n’s orders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Leave me comments? Obviously, there'll be no Kragdu while Yondu's little. When he gets older though... :waggles eyebrows:**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Rocket is not a plush toy and wiring is not a chew toy, and Drax tries his hand at discipline.**

Despite his demands for his presence, Yondu quickly tires of drooling on Kraglin. Peter tries to tell himself Kraglin’s expression of loss as Yondu scrambles off his lap and crawls to Drax isn’t heartbreaking. He nudges the older Ravager with his elbow.

“Hey, c’mon. You get him when he’s grown up. Let someone else have a turn. Plus – you really want him to think of you as a parent?”

Drax, busy encouraging Yondu with the aid of a bowl of raspberry-flavored baby-sludge, bestows a dark glare. “What do you mean, ‘get’ him?” Oh. Peter flounders. Drax’s glower pinpoints on Kraglin instead. “What are your intentions regarding this child?”

Kraglin turns motley red and stutters. Drax’s brows lower further, in danger of crushing his cheekbones. He stands in a burst of power and swaggers for the exit, Yondu balanced on one thigh - thighs Peter wouldn’t say no to having wrapped around his hips; dammit, _dammit_ – and reaching sulkily for the foodbowl in Drax’s other hand.

“I want him off the ship,” he tells Peter as he passes. “And if you do not remove him, I will. Through the fastest means possible – the airlock if necessary. You have five minutes.”

Kraglin’s mouth drops open. Peter, reminded that while Drax is far more intelligent than most credit him for, he can also be very, very stupid, groans and scrambles after him.

“Drax, buddy! Kraglin’s a great guy.”

“He’s a Ravager.”

Okay. Not that endearing, Peter’ll admit. Trying another tactic, he points to the flame stitched on his own sleeve. “So’m I, where it counts. Look, he’d never… y’know. Not with a kid. Just because he likes him in a… _different_ way when he’s older –“

“I am comfortable discussing matters of a sexual nature,” says Drax, brusque as ever. “You do not need to disguise your meaning. It is confusing and unnecessary.”

“Right, right…” That image of Drax spread beneath him on a bunk gains more clarity. Peter resists the urge to bang his head on the nearest wall. “Well, he might y’know, _like_ -like the older version –“

So much for not using euphemisms. Peter shrugs it off. Although he knows it happened – frequently, unapologetically, and with a decibel-level of moans that’d make seasoned pornstars blush – imagining Yondu and Kraglin making the two-backed beast still makes bile scratch the back of his throat. Picturing Kraglin doing anything to harm his captain when he’s like this – so small, so delicate; a _child,_ for Christ’s sake – is beyond even Peter’s considerable imagination.

“Really, when it comes down to it, he cares for him. He would never… uh, _mess about with him,_ if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Drax hums. He doesn’t look convinced – but, at Peter’s encouraging nod, he folds to sit once more, graceful as a muscled tiger. Kraglin’s doing his utmost not to cower, but his eyes show a nervous ring of white around the iris. Drax fixes a haughty look.

“Do not presume to harm him,” he warns, as if Kraglin hasn’t heard their conversation. “Or you will face me.”

Once upon a time, as the Ravagers and Guardians prepared to storm Ronan’s flying fortress, Kraglin had punched Drax’s arm in a friendly display of camaraderie, only to be met with a glare and a scowl. Now, as then, he averts his gaze at the floor, shrinking his skinny shoulders. Without Yondu’s exuberance to perk him, he wilts like a stick-insect that’s curled up to die.

Peter gets it. Those two have always been inseparable: Yondu-and-Kraglin, Kraglin-and-Yondu. Their names are repeated in tandem so frequently that they might as well have been double-barreled.

Yondu led the way. He yelled the charge and cooked up the plots, while Kraglin enacted an occasionally restraining (but all-too-often enabling) influence. To Captain Udonta, his presence was an asset. To baby-Yondu, he’s all but useless.

Struck by a flare of pity, Peter hunkers down besides him. Kraglin’d suckerpunch him for sentiment if he attempted any verbal reassurance, so Peter sets his Walkman to waft vibes of _Ain’t No Mountain High Enough_ and turns to Drax. He gives Yondu an encouraging beam, and opens his arms.

Watching his ex-captain totter, crawl, butt-scoot, and roll across the floor in his vague direction, sets Peter more at peace than anything else in the galaxy. It could only be improved if he were the center of Yondu’s attention.

Like all young children, Yondu is easily distracted. He discovers a stray wire Rocket dropped when he was ‘salvaging’ sparkplugs from the door relay that morning, and promptly parks his shirt-diapered butt down to chew on it.

Rocket chooses this moment to saunter in. He screeches when he spies the twisted copper poking from little blue lips.

“No! No, you lil’ monster! Give that back! I need that!”

“Woah buddy!” Peter tries to grab him before he can shoot past, but either he’s too slow or Rocket too agile; he slithers out of his grip in a manner better suited to a weasel than a raccoon, and dives Yondu to the floor.

If he were an adult, it’d be about as ineffective as flicking a pebble at an oncoming avalanche. But right now Yondu’s smaller than Rocket. They both go flying.

“Oh shit,” Peter breathes.

Rather than starting to blub, Yondu takes the tackle with dignity – as much dignity as a toddler can muster. He rolls across the floor, grappling with the hissing raccoon as Rocket tries to pry his jaws.

He succeeds in having him open his mouth – but only for as long as it takes to chortle. Snapping his tiny teeth closed centimeters shy of Rocket’s finger, Yondu wraps chubby arms around him and clings like a bushbaby.

Rocket snarls. All-too-aware of Drax’s sentinel presence, he doesn’t dare claw the brat. He tugs the inch of wire outside of Yondu’s mouth.

Yondu’s answer is to gurgle cheerfully and yank on a fistful of fur. Hard.

All attempts at an offence are forgotten. “Help,” Rocket wheezes, as Yondu rubs his face against his whiskers, still gumming the wire.

Drax muses, rubbing his chin. “Rocket is correct. I do not believe that to be a suitable chew-toy for an infant. He may choke.”

Peter rolls his eyes and crawls forwards – but Kraglin lurches ahead of him, harried eyes stuck on the tangle of fur and fragile blue flesh. “I got it,” he says.

He’s cautious as he peels Yondu’s lips apart, letting him keep squeezing Rocket in the hopes it’ll keep him distracted. Rocket isn’t happy with this, but doesn’t have air to waste on complaining. “Here we go,” he mutters. “C’mon, kid. Gimme.”

He talks to Yondu brisk and firm, as he would with the adult when he’s acting up. Or possibly a mischievous eight-year-old Terran. Peter smirks at the memory – Kraglin dishing out a stern chiding after he found Peter backing an M-ship out of dock, his eyes barely peeping over the console, nav systems clumsily attuned for earth.

Only ten years his senior, Kraglin had never quite mastered the art of putting the fear of God into the smallest Ravager. He’d always occupied a lateral position in Peter’s rearing, more of the awkward, gangly uncle-figure than a substitute father. Not like Yondu.

But thinking of ‘Yondu’ and ‘fatherhood’ in the same sentence is nigh impossible at the moment, what with his current diminutive stature. Kraglin has to be careful how he handles him, squeezing at the hinge of Yondu’s jaw.

Yondu, sensing a game, only chews harder. He snuggles into Rocket, using him as a huggable plush, and twists away from the coaxing pressure of Kraglin’s fingers. It’s like watching a puppy play tug-of-war. Kraglin digs at Yondu’s cheeks in increasing frustration. While he may be a little bit in love with the guy, that doesn’t mean he won’t accidentally bust one of his milkteeth.

Drax takes it upon himself to intervene. “Move,” is all he says to Kraglin – who scurried from the Destroyer's path. Drax picks Yondu up, Rocket still attached. His protests have long since faded into breathless cusses.

Surprisingly, Drax doesn’t protest the language, which is as blue as Yondu’s skintone. He pinches the protruding wire tip and tilts Yondu until he’s angled over, crushing Rocket against Drax’s solid quads. Then, he deals him a light swat.

Light by his standards.

Yondu’s jaw unlocks. He spits out wire, saliva, and a pained squeak all at once. He even releases Rocket.

Scarcely noticing his freedom, Rocket continues to squirm for a full five seconds before Drax calmly separates the pair and, ignoring Peter and Kraglin’s stares, presses the little boy to his front when his face crumples and the hiccuping snuffles begin.

“There, there. It will be alright soon enough, little one.” Watching him rock the kid shouldn’t be so endearing. Peter shakes his head, focusing instead on Rocket – who bolts to take cover behind him, whiskers bristling and snarl interspersed with hisses.

“Don’t let him grab me like that,” he warns Peter. There’s a temptation to smooth the prickling fur over his ears, but Peter suspects he’ll only earn a clawed arm. “Dunno what I’ll do next time.”

Peter gets it. Rocket’s not one for unrequited touching, especially not without warning. Infantile Yondu might be, but his roughplay could have resurrected memories Rocket would rather not relive, regardless of intention. Peter doubts the scientists on Halfworld asked their experiments for permission before snatching them from their cages.

He catches the twisted, soggy wire when it’s tossed their way, Drax supporting Yondu one-handed against his shoulder. Peter places it on the ground between him and Rocket, so his smaller teammate can grab it and scarper without having to engage in prolonged contact.

He needn’t have bothered. Rocket assesses it in a snappy once-over and turns up his nose. “S’all chewed. Useless now. You better keep that kid away from any of my crap, Quill. He might not have no arrow, but he’s still flarkin’ dangerous.”

To himself as well as everyone else. Peter nods. “Will do.” He doesn’t even leave the wire to languish in the usual slow cycle of objects from floor to rubbish bin, standing and punting it into the waste chute right away. The _Milano_ could use a thorough child-proofing. But as Yondu’s only going to be too young to talk sense to for another five or six days, Peter decides it’s a waste of effort.

Meanwhile, Kraglin watches Drax. “You hit him,” he says.

Drax shakes his head. “A spank. To be used only when absolutely necessary – either as discipline or, as in this case, as a means of protecting him from an object he does not realize could cause him harm.” Yondu, plastered to his front, must have a psychic sense to know they’re talking about him. He twists to give them all a view of his wobbling chin and tear-stained chops, before stifling his whimpers in Drax’s chest. Emotionally manipulative little shit, even at that age. Peter plonks down besides Kraglin and tosses an arm over his shoulders.

“C’mon. It isn’t like you never gave me a cuff round the ear when I was pissing you off. At least Drax doesn’t threaten to put him in the stewpot.”

“I guess…” Kraglin rotates his spoon, letting the mushed raspberry-colored substance they’ve been coaxing Yondu into crawling with swill about the bowl’s bottom. “Ain’t you afraid he’ll be scared of ya next time he’s here though? If ya hurt him?”

They’ve explained the intricacies of the situation to the best of their ability, pointing out the panel on the side of the artifact that’d compressed when it was dropped (“I am Groot!” “I know, buddy. Not your fault.”) and released a puff of orange-glowing gaseous spores.

Those spores had funneled straight into Yondu’s shocked mouth, right before his body was engulfed in intersecting light beams made of colors Peter can’t recall, let alone put names to. Had he greater knowledge of the multiverse, he might’ve made an analogy to the Bifrost-rainbow: a glimpse of unrefined eternity that had wrapped Yondu in a gossamer shroud before wrenching him apart on a quantum level and reassembling him anew.

Peter considers, then shakes his head. “No,” he hazards. “I doubt he’ll even remember who we are.”

A year is a very long time when you’ve only lived through one of them, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Leave me comments, my lovelies.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu goes home.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Short (but sweet) chappie**

That night, when the onboard chronometer declares Yondu has a minute left on the clock, the team gather to watch the transformation.

Drax ceremoniously carries Yondu to the artifact. Kraglin trails after him, a slim red ghost. For the most part, the Guardians ignore the Ravager in their midst; Gamora eyes him mistrustfully every now and again, and Rocket holds Groot back when he makes to dart across and introduce himself.

Peter doesn’t blame them. They’ve hardly thawed to Yondu’s presence, and he’s a defenseless baby. The worst he can do is deafen them. A shoot-out with Kraglin in the Milano’s cockpit could spell all of their demises.

But Kraglin’s a tough cookie. He blanks the other Guardians in return, eyes only on his captain. When Drax sets Yondu down on the table besides the thrumming object – and now Peter’s so close he can _taste_ it, a static pulse that ebbs and swells and stipples his tongue with ozone – Yondu immediately breaks for the edge, sensing freedom.

It’s Kraglin who darts forwards. And although he hesitates when Drax steadies the little guy, plonking him firmly on his shirt-padded bottom and wagging his finger in a definitive _stay_ motion (Yondu gives it a cheeky nip), Drax notices. He tips Kraglin a fraction of a nod.

Approval. That’s good. It’s flarking brilliant. Kraglin’s presence has been accepted by the person most opposed to it; Peter should be celebrating. So why’s he jealous that Drax’s attention is on someone other than him?

Yondu smiles when he notices they’re all watching. A stage-hogger even at this tender age – Peter can’t say he’s surprised. However, when they fail to emulate his excitement, that perky grin fades.

“Gabagaba?” he says. He reaches for Drax. Having no idea what’s going on, he can only take his cues from them, and they’re hardly the most reassuring – a circle of four adults, one raccoon and one bonsai-sized tree, all of whom are watching him with varying degrees of dislike, nervousness, and anticipation.

Peter elbows Drax when he makes to move forwards. “Wait! It’s about to activate.” He can tell – attuned to the charged ions buzzing around the vibrating cube. When Drax glares, making to dismiss Peter’s warning in favor of the now-whimpering child, he elaborates. “Who knows what it’ll do if it strikes two people at once? You and Yondu might merge, _The Fly_ -style! Nobody wants that.”

“I think,” rumbles Drax, “that your concerns are non-founded.” However, he hesitates a second too long. An instant before he reaches the table, Yondu entire body fluxes – not flexes but _fluxes,_ as if he’s a hologram being replaced by a more up-to-date model. His brilliant blue skin goes the color of the Terran sky at the horizon line, then pigeon-egg white, then paler still.

Peter can’t look away. It’s like he’s watching a ghost dissipate, the last shreds of a vanishing soul.

Yondu certainly looks terrified enough for the analogy to fit. His outstretched hands card the air a meter in front of Drax, tiny fingers clawing, and he _screams_ …

The sound rings reedy as a faraway gull call. Yondu’s half-gone already. His red eyes – wide, glossy with a fresh sluice of tears – burn into Peter’s memory, an afterimage that’ll haunt him through the night.

He swallows dryly, spit cracking in his throat. The six observers stare at the scorched patch left either by Yondu’s ejection from their timeline or one of the miscellaneous bits of equipment Rocket likes to leave lying on the breakfast table.

“Well, that was disturbing,” Peter says.

The orange glow recedes. Yondu has been sucked into the box like dust up the nozzle of a high-powered hoover. Gaze flitting between the empty slab of metal and Drax’s tense scowl, Peter counts the seconds. Guardians and Ravager alike hold their breaths. They watch. They wonder. And they wait.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Light explodes from the artifact’s opposite side, a flash so bright they all shrink and squint. Peter throws up a hand to shield himself. When the brilliance fades he finds a two year old in its place: deposited belly-up with his inch-long crest squished against the tabletop, clad in a simple red loincloth. There are two tattoos on his wrist now; the miniature whorls gleam like spilled oil on his rich blue skin.

“Hi, little guy,” Peter whispers.

Yondu looks straight at him and shrieks.

His eyes are pink-red, huge, and more terrified than Peter’s ever seen them. They bug out of his skull. He scrambles rearwards. Peter, Drax and Kraglin lurch after him, all too aware of the looming table-edge – but bash into each other in the confined room, tripping over their own feet. It doesn’t help that Rocket and Gamora have instinctively reached for their weapons. There’s enough tension in the air that you could slice it with a teaspoon, let alone Gamora’s katana. Drax shoots her a dark look.

“Friends. Please.”

Rocket shakes his head. He levels a finger at Yondu – who kneels a precarious inch from falling, pressed back against the table with his chest rising and falling in such rapid succession that his ribs flutter like a hummingbird’s wings. “Nuh-uh. He’s old enough to know we ain’t his kind? He’s old enough to be dangerous.” Peter boggles at him, shaking his head. “What?”

“He’s like, two!”

“So? I coulda killed someone when I was two.”

“Yeah, but we’ve all established by now that you didn’t exactly have the most stellar upbringing. Boo hoo, everyone has a sob-story, right?”

He ignores Rocket’s mutter of ‘Rude, ain’t he,’ as well as the supportive ‘I am Groot’. Instead Peter turns his attention to Gamora – sensible Gamora, who can always be relied on not to lose her head in a crisis. He looks at her appealingly.

“C’mon, he doesn’t even understand us. How dangerous can he be?”

Her lips thin. She releases her sword pommel, but doesn’t make to peel herself from the far wall. “I had hoped he would become less noisy as he grew.”

Peter laughs. “You kidding? This is still Yondu we’re talking about.”

Kraglin at least tries to be soothing. He arranges his face to look friendly – difficult, when said face is sallow, crisscrossed with brown-grey stubble and sour as if he’s been sucking lemons. He sneaks towards the table with his hands outstretched. “Woah there, kiddo. We ain’t gonna hurt ya –“

Yondu cringes. They all flinch when he loses the battle with gravity and crashes to the deck with a reverberant thud.

Silence. Then, starting tentatively but swelling in volume with each passing second – “Waaaaaah!”

Sighing at his companions – all of whom are too busy clutching their ears to be of use – Drax stomps over. He hauls the two-year-old into his arms. Yondu flails, fighting with the uncoordinated swings of a child too young to throw a punch.

There’s no traction to be gained against Drax’s steady grip. When Yondu surrenders, he does so with a sob, crumpling forlornly over Drax’s chest. Drax cups the base of his skull like he had when he was a babe, rocking him back and forth, hushing him as the quivers recede.

“Hello to you too, little one,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Don't worry, Yondu won't be scared of them for long! He's just a lil freaked out because he's now old enough to recognise that they ain't blue.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which food is eaten and snot is sneezed, and our heroes realize they're in over their heads.**

It takes Yondu an hour to stop jumping every time he looks at them. This must all seem so strange, to be yanked from your home and deposited in a chilly, rusty industrial ship a million lightyears away… Not that Yondu has any way of knowing the specifics of their situation. He wouldn’t understand even if they told him.

Seeing him so easily spooked is unnerving. Rocket tries to hide his disquiet under brash laughter and jibes about how low the great Ravager admiral has fallen. At least, he does until he realizes he and Groot are the only ones on the team Yondu doesn’t quake at the sight of.

Instead, he flashes his crest ruby-red at them. His little face – blue and tiny and impossibly delicate – breaks into a wide smile. He chirrups in his odd musical language, whistles and clicks layered clumsily atop the vowels, in the same way a child learning how to talk may muddle pronouns and sentence order. Groot, ignoring Rocket’s warning hiss, scampers over and treats him to a woody beam. Yondu’s old enough to walk now, although gravity still gets the better of him more often than not. He’s so delighted by Groot’s show of acceptance that he falls over.

No tears follow though, and he manages to flop backwards rather than on top of the smallest Guardian. His crest flares again, light casting his plump cheeks maroon. When he holds out his hand, Groot timidly rests the blunt tip of his own against it.

Rocket scoffs. He barges between them, arms in a tight cross. “Ain’t it his bedtime?” he snaps at Peter. Yondu watches his mouth curiously, surprised that there’s noise emanating from it besides yips and growls. He must’ve mistaken Rocket for an animal. Usually, Peter’d be the first to punch any who dared insinuate such a thing – but that mode of education would be counterproductive, if they’re trying to convince Yondu that they’re not going to hurt him. Were their positions reversed, Peter doesn’t doubt that Yondu would have given him a sharp flick on the ear every time he yodelled. But right now, they’re the adults, and it’s up to them to take responsibility. To do the right thing. To protect him. To be better parents than Yondu ever was.

Young though he is, he must’ve been taught to mistrust strangers. He doesn’t break for the door when Drax stoops to take him into his arms, but judging from the dart of his gaze in that direction, it comes close. However, when Drax contorts his severe expression into a smile, Yondu decides he’s in no danger and snuggles into the cozy embrace. Drax hoists him with graceful ease. His biceps bunch under his scarred grey skin. Stupid sexy Destroyer.

Kraglin, noticing the direction of Peter’s stare, digs his elbow between his ribs. “Don’t catch flies,” he says. Peter barges him back, too late to avoid Drax’s bemused frown.

“There are no flies on the ship to my awareness. What is he talking about, Peter?”

Peter wishes he didn’t know. Glaring at Kraglin, he gestures for Drax to lead the way into the _Milano’s_ cramped mess-facility. “He’s just being a prick. Let’s you and me get the tyke some mushy fruit to suck on while we figure out our next course…”

He takes great delight in shutting the door in Kraglin’s face. But even then, the Ravager’s sniggers carry through the metal.

 

* * *

 

There may be no flies aboard the _Milano,_ but there’s bugs aplenty. This is proved by Yondu’s sneeze.

“Huuuh- _choo!”_

Rocket perches on the counter, surrounded by guns. He claims he’s catching up on long-overdue weapons maintenance. Peter knows better. Rocket’s waiting for Yondu to do something perceivable as a threat, so he can test out his latest moon-destroyer. Sure enough, at that little explosion Rocket hops onto his hind legs, pistol at the ready. He whips it round to menace the boy who’s currently using an old pair of Peter’s underpants as a bib. “What was that?”

Yondu, red fruit residue smeared over his chin, lips, hands, front and caretakers, looks adorably ghoulish. He giggles and slaps another sticky wadge directly down Rocket’s freshly-pipecleaned barrel. “Wha – argh! Peter! Look what your idiot pet’s done!”

“Rocket,” chides Drax, smacking the goop-coated pistol out of his paws. It skitters across the grubby floor, coming to rest against a pile of dirty dishes. “Do you enjoy being referred to as a pet?”

Rocket bristles. “Flark no!”

“Then do not call our guest that.”

“It ain’t like he understands us!”

Remembering his conversation with Drax on this topic, Peter clears his throat – licking tangy jam off his fist before he hems into it – and answers in the big guy’s stead. “That’s no excuse. He’s still a sentient being, and deserves to be treated with as much respect as you.” His gaze slides to the Centaurian, who has returned to tackling the challenge of locating his mouth with his food. “Remember, this isn’t the Yondu we know. As he is right now, he’s completely innocent.”

Drax’s smile makes fireworks dart along his spine. Rocket isn’t so beguiled. “Innocent my ass! An’ what about as he gets older, huh? He ain’t gonna be this squishy lil’ cherub forever.”

More’s the pity. But a Yondu is for life, not just for Christmas. Peter stands his ground. He tells himself it’s for Yondu’s sake, but can’t deny that he has ulterior motives: namely, to win Drax’s approval. “For as long as the effects of the weapon last,” he says firmly, “we have to guard it. Then we can find someone who’ll keep it from those who’ll abuse it. Like we did with the stone.” This is said with a nod to Gamora, who returns it, looking appeased. “But in the meantime, Yondu’s our responsibility. You heard what the Collector said – if anything major happens to him, all of Xandar will be forfeit.”

Kraglin lurks in the corner. He has an uncanny knack for skulking, and his dark merlot jumpsuit blends into the _Milano_ ’s dim interior, a chameleon of patched red leather. “So how far can we push this time travel thingie?” he asks. “Let’s say he recognizes the M-ships once he joins the Ravagers, after spendin’ so long in this one. Will that change things? And will those changed things change _other_ changed things?”

“A butterfly effect, you mean?” It’s an understandable concern. Studying Yondu, Peter strokes his fuzzy chin. “I think we need to talk to someone with more expertise –“ Yondu sneezes again. A snotty string joins the raspberry currently coating his cheeks. Peter pulls a face. “And someone who can give him an immuno-vaccine. Preferably before he returns to his own time and wipes out the Centuarian race from the common cold.”

“I suggest that we do that first,” Gamora says, as Yondu sneezes for a third time, limbs fitting at the force. “Or our kitchen shall become more unsuitable for food preparation than it already is.”

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah bud. That _would_ be difficult.”

Peter crooks an eyebrow at Rocket. “Says the guy who treks engine oil over the worktop.”

“I wouldn’t haveta climb if you’d just put the cupboards on floor level…”

“What, and have to crouch whenever I want something? No way!”

“This here’s discrimination, Quill! I’m vertically challenged!”

Were Yondu his usual self, he’d make a crack about how Peter must be getting old if he’s so worried about throwing his back when he bends over. Or an inappropriate joke about bending over. Either way, it’d make half the guardians stare aghast while the other half cackled.

Peter misses that ability to divide a room. There’s precious else he’d salvage of his ex-captain’s personality, besides his sense of humor. So he tells himself, as he untucks the squirming, sticky Centaurian from his pouch (which has grown with the aid of a third shirt donated by Drax, as none of the other Guardians are willing to fork over their garments and Kraglin only brought what he wears on his back. Drax doesn’t mind; he has plenty to spare).

Nope. He doesn’t miss Yondu at all. This version – who swats stickily at Peter, smiling all the while – is so much cuter. Sweeter. Better in every way.

Peter only realizes how goofy his smile has become when he catches Drax emulating the expression. He hastily schools his features, although his efforts to quell the race of his heart are less effective. Yondu sneezes again before he can wonder if he’s blushing – this time all over Peter.

Peter groans. Then thanks the stars that he’s been splattered with a relatively inoffensive bodily fluid. He tries to scowl at Yondu anyway, just to press home the point that sneezing isn’t a respected greeting in this part of the galaxy, but the two-year-old meets his glare with a saccharine simper that threatens to give Peter cavities. Oh God. He’s so adorable. He’d been sweet as a baby – in a wrinkly, wormish kinda way. This iteration, which looks angelic even with a booger dangling from its nostril, makes Peter’s throat close up.

Andromeda species don’t get nearly so sentimental over cute things as their neighbors in the Silver Spiral. Yondu, born and reared in the star system next door to Peter’s own, is the classic example. Hence his confusing, conflicted hodgepodge of signals. He’d welcomed the eight-year old Terran to his crew with relative warmth, collected cute dashboard ornaments, and did his best not to murder folks in front of their kids. But he also smacked Peter about when he was annoying, refused to show any fondness for him in public, and lectured him constantly on the dangers of going soft. The culture-clash between galaxies explains Gamora’s continued distance from their youngest crewmate, and Rocket’s suspicion of him. Heck, if it weren’t for their personal connection, Kraglin would be just as cold. And Drax…

Well, Peter’s still figuring that one out. If Andromeda-dwellers are hardwired to only connect with their blood-offspring, why did Drax immediately latch onto Yondu? Maybe it’s residual affection for his long-dead daughter. Maybe he’s getting broody, nearing a heat. Some species go through those on a yearly cycle, and while Peter doesn’t think Drax is one of them, he may need to snoop at his medical records and check. Because as the Guardians’ de facto leader, it’s his duty to know his crew and their needs. Not because he’s hopeful. Certainly not.

Or maybe, Drax is … different. Even by alien standards.

Yondu tries to wipe his nose on Peter’s jacket, prompting Peter to hold him at arms' length. “Oh no you don’t, mister. Kraglin, you got a hankie?” Kraglin produces a scrap of fabric that’d give Yondu tetanus if it came within a yard of him. Peter blanches. “Put that away! Okay kid. Just use your arm.”

Drax tuts. “You should not encourage ill-mannered behavior. Do you want him to grow up to be a barbarian?”

“Well, yeah!” Peter gives Yondu an encouraging smile, and cuddles him close once the boy’s swiped his snot along his wrist, snuffling the remnants back into his nose with a gap-toothed grin. “You’re gonna be a Ravager boss, aren’t you? A big bad nasty boss. Oh, you’re so huggable. I could do this forever.”

“No you could not,” Drax hastens to inform him. “We only have twenty hours on the clock. We must hurry, if we wish to reach a medicenter and have him vaccinated before he returns to his own time. And we must contact the Collector swiftly to discuss the details of his condition in greater depth.”

If Rocket’s muzzle was capable of forming a pout, it would be. “Aw. Do we gotta? Whitey and his cages give me the heebie-jeebies.”

Understatement, given his past. Peter doesn’t let pity show on his face – he doubts it’d be appreciated. “’Fraid so. He’s the expert. Gamora, Groot and you can work on getting an answer out of him, while me, Kraglin, Drax and the tyke get dropped off at the nearest Shi’ar hospital. Sound good?”

“No,” says Gamora simply, putting their thoughts into words. “But it’s the best we’ve got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tell me what you thouuuuught**


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu gets his medicine, Peter practices accents, and Drax is electrocuted**

Shi’ar hospitals provide medical aid from here to the galaxy’s ass-end. Each establishment mirrors the last – perfect cylindrical replicas boasting matching wards, beds, bacta-tanks, robotic surgeons whose precision dials are set to a thousandth of a millimeter, and bland beige cafeterias where nutrient powder is compressed into fun and exciting kid-friendly shapes.

Peter glumly pokes his triangles. He’d ordered them in orange, as that’s his favorite color. But while orange means citrus-flavored on Terra, these taste of mothballs and disappointment.

“Hey,” says Kraglin, around his own mouthful. Specks of compacted protein fleck the table. He’s gone for the blue circles, and his teeth are stained turquoise. Given the general state of his dental hygiene, that’s an improvement. “You gonna eat them or what?”

Peter pushes his portion across the table. It soon joins the rest in Kraglin’s seemingly bottomless gut – how the guy stays svelte while guzzling his own weight in calories every mealtime, Peter has no idea. Probably a tapeworm.

There’s a polite hem from besides them. The pair, seated on opposite sides of the small chrome table in an airy, symmetrical room filled with identical small chrome tables, turn to find a nurse. She peers down her nose at their flame patches and holds out a holopad for inspection. Even the orderlies are much of a likeness; the ones in this institution tend towards tall and thin, with bony dark hands and sleek black hair-tendrils that waft about their faces in the slightest breeze.

Yondu had kicked up a fuss when Peter tried to pawn him off on one. It’d threatened to cause a problem – not just for Peter’s pride, which crumpled as the blue boy snarled and hissed like a feral thing, kicking at the nurse who dared pry him away and clinging to Peter’s collar as if he’d never see him again. Escalation meant attention. And attention could only equate trouble when rearing a Ravager Admiral.

In the present, Peter scrolls through the pad’s hieroglyphics until he finds a version of the text compatible with his translator. Yondu collects enemies like he does trinkets for his control console. If any of them catch wind of his condition… If word gets out…

His fingers tighten on the pad’s brittle plastic sides. The holo-image fizzles, and Peter releases his grip at the last moment, recalling that Shi’ar tech isn’t nearly as robust as the Ravager or Guardian equivalents. This pad’s made for _perusing,_ not dashing against skulls – although Peter’d happily test out its potential as a melee weapon if anyone threatened Yondu.

He pushes the pad to Kraglin so he can scroll through its contents. He does so slowly, sounding out each letter to himself – Peter can tell because his lips shape the syllables, and his eyebrows bunch over the bridge of his nose in constipated concentration. Sighing, he leans forwards onto his elbows.

“Give it here.”

Kraglin’s scowl borders a sneer, twisty and vile. “I can do it,” he spits. Peter shakes his head.

“Yeah, then I’m the one who’ll have to suffer watching. I’ll read it for ya. You wanna dawdle about over this when you could be seein’ cap’n?”

He’s slipped back into Ravager dialect. Judging by the cadence of Kraglin’s answer – “Always were too smart fer yer own good, Petey,” – it’s naturalistic enough that he hasn’t noticed. Peter does though. Retrieving the pad, he forces himself to emulate Gamora’s lilting accent.

“From our initial physical survey, patient 59fZ7B is a two year old male of Centaurian origin. His species is not logged onto Universal records, yet his biology is similar enough to the majority of bipedal vertebrates that he can metabolize Xandarian drugs, albeit at a greater rate. Please await blood test results for further details… The next bit’s boring – first-time parenting manuals and shit. Oh, okay, here we go. Recommended dosage: double that administered to Xandarians, triple in serious incidences. Never exceed a quadruple dose, or else organ failure may result –“

“Yada yada. Didn’t ask for none of this medical bullcrap.” Kraglin leans over, bony wrists gouging the tabletop. “Can we go in yet? Thas what I wanna know. I ain’t leavin’ boss alone with yer boyfriend –“

“He ain’t my boyfriend!” A pause, during which Peter considers the rest of Kraglin’s little speech before deciding that another part of it is worthy of his denials. “And Yondu’s safe with him. Don’t you trust that?”

Kraglin’s expression informs Peter that he’s an idiot. Kraglin being Kraglin has to add insult to injury and consolidate this with words. “Quill, you dumb shit. I’m the captain’s second. I got his back; s’practically my job description. Ya really think I’m happy with him bein’ outta my sight, now he needs protection more than ever?”

Peter plonks the pad into the orderly’s waiting hands. “If you don’t trust him, at least trust me,” he says, nodding to dismiss her. “Right now, Yondu’s the safest of any of us.”

This point is driven home by the orderly, who’s been eyeing their Ravager patches since her approach. Both are tatty and off-color. Peter’s is sans a few stitches from the one time he’d attempted to remove it, when he was smarting from the aftermath of the battle on Xandar and all of a sudden, that little orb he’d tossed to Dey didn’t seem worth the price of Yondu’s retreating back. He’d spent a minute gouging at the threads with his nails, rejecting Gamora’s offer of scissors. Then deemed the symbolic cutting of his ties too difficult, and gone about his day.

He’d never torn the patch completely. But he’d never restitched it either. The empty holes pierced in the leather wink at him now, as eavesdropping none-too-subtly on their conversation, the orderly takes Yondu’s name as her cue to call security.

 

* * *

 

Drax had shouldered his way into the pediatric zone. Pleas from the nurses – bureaucracy demanded only legal guardians accompany children outside of the visitors’ designated sterilized zones – were met with glares and a reminder that Drax was the Guardian not just of Yondu, but of the entire Galaxy. Peter had watched through the plastic porthole on the door as Drax fended off the nurse, than the doctor, then the matron herself. Eventually he took a seat, immovable as a boulder, with Yondu straddling his knee. He crossed his arms and refused to be budged, and that was that.

It was strange to see the young Centaurian sitting of his own accord. When people said ‘oh, it seems like he was a baby yesterday’, they usually spoke rhetorically. But Yondu really _had_ been a floppy baby, limp as Plasticine, not forty-eight hours ago. Considering that the day before _that_ he’d been boss of a fearsome Ravager horde, prowling the starways in search of fresh prey, the speed of his current growth spurts isn’t strange – or at least, no stranger than the rest of the situation.

What was more surprising was the way he liquefied over Drax’s leg like a content kitten. He nuzzled him, in a display of affection no one to Peter’s knowledge – certainly not Peter himself – had ever been privy to. And Drax, looking positively colossal in comparison, had settled a vast hand over Yondu’s growing fin and returned the gesture. He caressed Yondu’s scalp: so small, so delicate, like one of the glass-spun ornaments that spangled his dashboard and threw back the light from passing stars. And as Yondu sneezed and made to wipe it on his arm – then changed his mind and blew his nose on the proffered tissue – Drax smiled.

Peter had given the brat a wave and retreated before Kraglin could tease him for staring. Not that Peter had been. Totally not. He’d just been watching Drax closely in case the big guy lost his grip on the squirmy toddler and let him run amok around the ward until the nurses had to fetch the tranq darts.

The patients at the hospital are assessed for seriousness of condition, and cataloged accordingly into different wards. Their wristbands correspond to their degree of treatment, but also to their contagion levels. Yondu, diagnosed with a mild strain of Xandarian flu, won’t be allowed into the visitors’ area outside of a forcefield mask. These aren’t dissimilar to spacemasks; they encase the wearer’s body in a glove like, germ-tight sheathe while still enabling complete visibility and range of motion.

Peter can see a couple of the other diners in them now. You can tell from the shimmer on their skin, forcefield glistening like an oil slick. They, along with every other sentient in the place, have turned to boggle at the outlaws in their midst.

Luckily, Yondu’s ailment will be cured with a quick prick of a needle, if Drax can hold Yondu still for the duration. Which is good, because they’ve gotta go.

“Are you telling me the Ravagers have already recommitted all those crimes they were expunged of by Nova Prime?” hisses Peter to Kraglin out the corner of his mouth. “How? It’s only been three months!”

Kraglin glowers at the approaching security droids. “Yeah, well. Given ya lost us flarkin’ _millions_ from that orb job, we had to work doubletime to make up for lost business.”

“But _three months?”_ Peter stares aghast as one of the bots projects a three-dimensional bounty sheet. It overlays Kraglin’s face – the man barely twitches – and gleams gold as it matches feature to feature. “How do you get a ten thousand unit bounty in _three months?”_

“Ask Yondu,” comes Kraglin’s prompt reply. “His’s quadruple that.”

“Shit!” Because in hindsight, Peter hasn’t thought this through. Yondu’s not exactly some lowbrow criminal nobody. He’s Admiral of the goddam Ravager fleet, hailed as a tough cookie from here to the quasars at the galaxy’s edge. As a result, his bio-signature will be logged on the inter-empire database of crooks-in-want-of-apprehension. The moment they test his blood…

What will the Shi’ar Empire do if faced with a pint-sized Udonta? They won’t out-and-out murder him – they’d never hear the end of it from the paparazzi. But they’re not above calling him a threat, and locking him up with the Artifact until he’s old enough to pay penance for his crimes. Or, worse yet, foisting him over to some sappy native family for adoption.

Peter’s knuckles ache, he balls his fists so hard. He rises to his feet, shoulders squared, showing off his breadth and muscle. “Bounty or not, they ain’t having him,” he says. Kraglin’s snarl proclaims his agreement.

So does Drax’s holler. He barrels through the doors, a squealing Yondu under one arm. They’re pursued by five more security droids, whose appendages crackle with electricity. Yondu’s having the time of his life. Wouldn’t it be perfect, if this incident gave him his love for adventure? Better that than have it terrify him to the extent where he’ll never join the Ravagers in the first place.

Peter hopes Gamora and the others have made contact with the Collector. He could use some answers about the idiosyncrasies of this whole time traveling shtick. Before worrying about that though, he’s got to get himself, Drax, Yondu, and Kraglin to safety.

Shame the hospital’s a no-weapons zone. They’d been patted down and stripped of their armaments when they first arrived – not that this stops Kraglin from whipping out a knife. Peter stares at it, a wicked curve of tilted steel as long as his forearm.

“The flark did you pull that from?”

Kraglin rolls his eyes. Then, knifetip not wavering from where it aims at the nearest robot’s throat, peels up his sleeve and reveals the compacted sheath. “Concertina blade,” he growls. “Don’t flag up as dangerous on scanners.”

“Sweet! I want one.”

“Flarkin’ stars, Pete. Why you always gotta copy my ideas? Yer as bad as Gef, I swear…”

Peter huffs. “Don’t see _you_ leading an interstellar band of heroes.”

“Heroes,” spits the orderly, who’s backed behind the guards and is wringing her hands. “You fraternize with _Ravagers_ and call yourself that? They looted a medical supply ship not three days back – drained our cache dry. People died!”

Kraglin shrugs. “Guilty as charged, yer honor.” But he meets Peter’s eye, and Peter sees that he’s frowning too. “Can’t say I remember that gig.”

Peter picks up on the insinuation. The Ravagers haven’t fallen apart without Yondu at the helm. They’re still held together – whether by threats, blood or bond, it matters little in the greater scheme of things. And as for their new leader? The ugly frostbite scar bored into the nurse’s thigh answers that question. (She pulls up her skirt to show them, as if she expects sympathy. Only Peter’s sense of self-preservation keeps him from risking a wolf-whistle – that and the droids’ stun batons, which bristle with sparks, just waiting for an excuse to engage.) Whoever’s in charge of the Ravagers, they favor elemental pistols similar to Peter’s own.

Taserface. Flarking brilliant.

“Now who’s copying who?” Peter mutters. Kraglin’s smirks wryly in spite of himself. “Okay, lady. Let’s you and me talk this out. Now the kid’s had his jab, what say me and mine get out of your hair? If you don’t alert the authorities, we can pretend none of this ever happened.”

The nurse glowers. “We do not acquiesce to the demands of terrorists!”

Peter’s about to make his riposte – declaring that the only terrorist he’s had the misfortune of meeting was atomized on Xandar in a vibrant violet tornado – when Drax takes matters into his own hands. Quite literally. “Here,” he says, pushing Yondu against Peter’s chest. “Hold this.”

Peter, bewildered, does so. The toddler wriggles, clicking unintelligible demands, but now’s not the time to indulge his want to scamper all over the place. Peter has to exert surprising strength to keep him locked in his arms. When he’s finally grappled him into a secure position – Yondu’s limbs restrained strait jacket style, pressed between his chest and Peter’s, his little legs swept to one side and cradled in a freckled pink hand – Peter notices that the doctors have yet to disengage his quarantine forcefield. His blue skin sparkles, glints rippling out from Peter’s touch like reflections on the surface of a pebble-scattered pool.

“Aw,” he croons. “Is ickle-Yondu still contagious?” Ickle-Yondu gleefully snorts up a booger. At least the forcefield prevents it from staining Peter’s shirt. He pulls a face. “Yes, ickle-Yondu is.”

He ignores Kraglin’s grimace. No doubt he, like adult-Yondu, views baby-talk as coddling: unnecessary, stupid, liable to make a child soft. He can suck it up though. Because right here and now, this Yondu is loving it.

Yondu’s delight only grows. He claps his hands when Drax calmly approaches the nearest droid. Its warning strike crackles harmlessly off his shoulder. Peter can’t help but stare. Sure, he knows Drax takes ‘thick-skinned’ to a whole new literal level – Peter’s never even seen him bleed. But these sticks ain’t toys. Medicine’s expensive to come by in the galaxy’s boondocks. As there’s folks who view a hospital like this as a prime target – folks like the Ravagers – the Shi’ar have stepped up their security to match. One blast from their stun batons and Peter’s muscles would fit and give out, bladder included.

He’s glad he wore the brown pants. Hopefully he’ll emerge from this encounter without needing to change them.

The chances of that occurring go from nought to fifty-fifty, as Drax grips the sides of the droid’s head, teeth bared as the wattage amplifies to the point where light flickers in his earholes. Then he pushes his palms together. Spurting sparks, the compacted droid crumples and lays still.

Drax turns to the orderly. “Do not call my friends terrorists,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey hey heeey, leave a comment? :D**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which more droids are crushed, the Collector talks time travel, and Rocket and Gamora are Big Damn Heroes**

“So, Whitey,” growls Rocket, hopping to stand atop the console so he can squint at the hologram projector at face rather than knee-level. “Let’s talk time travel. How much are we allowed to bash the kid about before we got a full scale paradox on our hands?” Faced with Gamora’s glare – emulated by the tree perched on her palm – he relents. “Alright, alright! We ain't gonna hurt him. But can we at least let this planetbound brat get a whiff of the stars? Tell him who he’s gonna be?”

The Collector’s smile is a strained thing, directed over the tips of his steepled fingers. “Timelines are… malleable,” he says. “They will not withstand a direct blow – for instance, should Udonta suffer an untimely death. However, they are far more flexible than most give them credit for. If you alter his future with your interference, your memories will alter to match, as your past will always have contained your own influence. The modulation will be imperceptible, as all will have transformed in tandem.”

Gamora stiffens. She’s had enough experience with cosmic demi-deities shuffling her thoughts and memories, imprinting and deleting whatever they see fit, altering the very fabric of who she is. “And if he dies?” she asks.

The Collector’s thoughtful expression becomes stern. “He is a pivotal character to the salvation of Xandar. Not just through providing aerial support and manpower, but in his negation of the delivery contract on the head of your leader, Peter Quill. Were he to die, all attempts to protect Xandar from Ronan’s forces would fail. And the unwinding of an event of this magnitude? That would cause massive upheaval in the timestream.” He looks each of the Guardians in the eye for a lingering second. His irises are like dwarf stars: small, pale, impossibly ancient. “I would be very careful, if I were you. Were he to perish here, outside of his time, the results would be… regrettable.”

“I am Groot?”

“Yeah, buddy. That sounded like an understatement to me too.”

“What sort of regrettable are we talking?” asks Gamora, eyes slim as the blade she’s polishing – the threat display is redundant, as the Collector’s holed up in his fortress several parsecs away, but it makes her feel better. “The sort of regrettable that makes Infinity Stones look paltry?”

The Collector tells them. Rocket’s too furry to blanch, and Groot’s barky skin isn’t the most conductive to color shifts, but Gamora goes an interesting shade of pale algae-green. “By the stars,” she breathes.

She’s so busy staring at the screen that she almost misses the flashing beacon that indicates Peter’s in trouble. This happens with such regularity that she could be forgiven for ignoring it – Peter thinks 'emergencies' constitute not having enough credits in his pocket to cover a bar-tab, and most death-threats aimed his way come from spurned lovers. But right now Peter’s with Drax, and anything that makes a Destroyer push his distress button must be serious.

Rocket ums and aahs, broadcasting his reluctance to help Kraglin and Yondu. But his care for his teammates wins out. He slams Peter’s button, letting their leader’s voice flood the cockpit vestibule.

“Guys!” Peter’s panting, obviously on the move. “Bring my ship around to the North exit! We gotta make a getaway!”

“’My’ ship? Why’s it ‘my’ ship when you’re ordering us about, but ‘our’ ship when it needs a wash?”

“Rocket! Not the time!”

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah, he didn’t say please. But we’re still gonna help you, Quill. Outta the kindness of our hearts.”

Gamora elbows Rocket from the transmission relay, dismissing the Collector’s image with a wave – the Collector having watched this latest kerfuffle with icy amusement. That expression’s unbefitting for a man who’s just made it clear that the death of their charge could result in a galaxy-wide catastrophe, but Gamora’ll vex herself over that at a later date. “Peter,” she says. “What’s the situation? Is Yondu with you?”

“Yeah, he’s here!” A child’s delighted laugh confirms it. It’s echoed by a lower grumble, and a sound that indicates Peter’s just been smacked upside the head. “Ow. And Kraglin. He says thanks for worrying about him.”

Rocket sneers. “As if we’d worry about that scrawny streak of slag –“

Another smack. Another heartfelt ‘ow’. “What are you hitting me for? He’s the one talking crap!” A mumble of indistinct conversation. “Yeah they’re my crew, but it’s not like I can tell them what to think! Now’s not the time for comparing me to the old man, dammit. Oh stars… Drax! Droids at six!”

A loud crunch, a fizzle, and silence. Gamora pushes her seat around so she can grasp the steering column. “I think we’d better hurry,” she says.

 

* * *

 

Four Guardians-plus-Ravagers pile through the _Milano’s_ entrance hatch. Peter, managing to trip on the threshold, slams into the deck shoulder-first to avoid crushing Yondu, then rolls so Drax falls to his left rather than on top of him.

Dammit.

He sits, wincing. He rotates his sore shoulder cuff as Kraglin, last of the sprinters, goes tumbling head-over-Drax and uses his face as a friction brake, skidding to a halt not two inches from Gamora’s boot.

That’s okay. He can’t get much uglier, Peter figures, and Yondu’d love him regardless. Not that the emotionally stunted blue idiot would ever admit it.

…Or at least, his adult self wouldn’t.

On cue, Yondu squirms from Peter’s arms. Ignoring Peter’s hurt, he toddles to Kraglin and paps him on the grazed cheek. “Iq’q Agka Kq?” he asks. Peter can’t guess as to a direct translation, but the sentiment behind the words is all too clear. Raising shakily to his knees, Kraglin clasps the tiny blue hand to his stubble and looks at his miniaturized captain with such tenderness it makes Peter’s chest hurt from the pressure of his swelling heart.

“M’fine,” he croaks. The closing hatch buries them in shadow, as if they’ve been dropped into a subterranean cave. Then the _Milano’s_ interior lamps snap on, bathing all four in rummy gold. Outside the portal, the orderly and the droids thud to a halt, readying blasters to begin their assault on the _Milano’s_ hull. Peter staggers upright, barging his way to the cockpit.

“Decouple!” he calls to Rocket, who’s in the pilot’s seat, his tiny feet scratching the air a meter above the foot pedals. Rocket’s smart enough to hotwire a bypass around them; he wrenches Peter’s ship from her magnetic locks in a manoeuvre that sends the lot of them tumbling about her interior like pebbles in a storm-tossed sea. Drax automatically checks for Yondu. Finding him cradled against Kraglin’s toast-rack ribcage, he concentrates on securing Groot instead. Peter, clinging to the back of the seat – and Gamora, who’s none-to-happy about being used as an anchor – flicks his gaze to the ship’s engine readouts. “Stars, Rocket! Be a bit more gentle! She’s our only goddam ship –“

“Oh, so she’s _our_ ship now?”

Peter doesn’t bother arguing. If Rocket wants to grumble, nothing Peter says will stop him. He rolls his eyes at the fuzzy muzzle reflected in the mirror, and wins a whipcrack of a grin. He watches the droids recede to streaks, then specks, then pinpricks. The nebula behind the medical station makes for a gauzy diaphanous backdrop, like green gossamer pulled across a backlight, and the light of the baby stars being birthed in its depths jabs bright needles into Peter’s retinas.

“We’re safe,” he tells Gamora, who’s grimly contemplating the middle distance. He realizes he’s still got one arm wrapped around her. Gamora hasn’t shoved it off, but she doesn’t seem enamored with its presence.

Last thing he wants is to piss her off, not when her mood’s so frosty. Peter likes the way his face is currently arranged, and he’d would prefer all of his appendages to remain attached, thank you very much. Gamora hasn’t warmed to their guests. Peter hasn’t thought to ask why, but perhaps he should. It’s his duty as leader, or something – to be the one who makes that effort, who tries to comfort and understand.

…But first he should stop the unrequited cuddling. Peter peels away, letting tension unfurl from Gamora’s shoulders. And notices Drax, Groot peeping through the prison bars of his fingers, watching in stoic, resolute silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Short but sweet!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu attacks a spaceship and discovers glass.**

Another day, another Yondu. Three years old means thrice as boisterous, apparently. The kid’s dashing around the ship like a mad thing, cackling as he dodges all of Kraglin’s attempts to catch him.

(“Getting slow in our old age, are we?” Peter mocks. He ducks to avoid the knife that’s hurled in his general direction, then scoots to one side to let the little bundle of blue skin and red loincloth barrel past.)

At this age, Yondu’s confident enough to remain upright. But his fine motor skills are lacking. His run’s more a flail, and the frenzy with which he pumps his chubby little arms and legs belies the relatively small distance he covers. He’s damn speedy around the corners though, and agile when he wants to be. Whenever Kraglin comes within grabbing distance he twists away.

“Why’s he running?” Peter asks Drax. The two of them watch the Ravagers’ antics from afar, sat on opposite sides of the breakfast table with the artifact between them. They look down the slope of the tube-braided roof to the hold and the airlock, which is clamped onto Kraglin’s to create the long, crooked, industrial tunnel that Yondu’s claimed for his playroom. “He doesn’t seem afraid of us anymore. Do you think he remembers who we are?”

“It is quite possible,” says Drax. “The events of our last excursion were fairly traumatic. I imagine they will be ingrained into his mind, even at this young age.”

“Hm.” Peter wonders what Yondu told his parents. He appraises the little boy, who bounces on his toes and shoots them a cheeky wave before darting fearlessly into the _Milano’s_ claustrophobic kitchen-quarters. He rapidly backpedals out again, menaced by Rocket, armed with a chef’s knife. Yondu sticks his tongue out at him. Apparently, that gesture’s universal. “He doesn’t seem too traumatized.”

Peter’s main recollection from yesterday – impossible to think that it was twenty-four hours ago; time revs up when you’re viewing someone’s life on fast-forwards – is Yondu’s laugh. It had jangled high above the hiss of droid mechanics, the fizzes of stun-batons, and the thud of their pounding feet. It’s a pleasant memory. Peter doesn’t have many of those where Yondu’s concerned, so he’s logged this one for posterity.

Drax hums. “Yes. He is a resilient creature.” While his eyes linger on the tot, who’s now capering around Kraglin’s gangly legs, he does glance briefly at Peter. The intensity of his gaze has sweat prickling the back of Peter’s neck. “I imagine you were much like him as a boy.”

Peter blinks. “Really?”

“Yes. You would’ve cried, at first – it is only natural for a lost child. But then you would’ve adapted, as he has, and become quite the intrepid explorer.”

Peter doesn’t know what to think about that. He’s displeased at Drax’s assumption that he spent his first days in space bawling his eyes out. Sure, it’s _true,_ but very far from the badass bandit image he strives to cultivate. “Something like that,” he grumbles. He pushes from his seat, hollering forwards to the cockpit – “How far to Xandar, Gamora?”

Because there’s more to Yondu’s energetic tag-game than playfulness. He’s keeping himself moving so he doesn’t start to shiver. Peter wouldn’t be much of a caretaker if he let him lose a few toes from frostbite – and so, it’s high time the Guardians went shopping.

 

* * *

 

You wouldn’t guess that Xandar had been the victim of a mass-extermination attempt. The planet’s just how Peter remembers it. Shiny. Silver. Packed with citizens and refugees from every quadrant in the galaxy; a plethora of shapes, sizes and colors, all perfectly pristine and wel-fed. The slim walkways, spun from chrome strands as delicate as spiders’ webs, glint under the harsh midday rays of the tri-star. Shadows are practically non-existent. The planet’s residents are assailed with light from every conceivable angle. The city is a seamless amalgamation of soaring spires and lush, vibrant greenery; crystalline pools intersperse the gardens and swooping promenades, and children giggle as they splash through the shallows.

Peter nudges Yondu. “Wanna try, little man?”

Yondu, boisterousness tempered by awe, cuddles Peter’s leg. Then, to Peter’s surprise, swarms him like a tree.

His weight is warm and solid, not heavy enough to encumber his walk but noticeable. Peter has to lean in the opposite direction to compensate. Yondu deposits himself in Peter’s arms. He peers out from his new vantage, and Peter can’t help but chuckle at the amazement on his miniature blue face. “Yeah. I know, pal. Incredible, isn’t it? Woah! Flarking hell, Yondu!”

A Nova cruiser whistles by overhead, air wobbling under its engines. Yondu flinches, a full-body motion. His tiny leg muscles bunch. That’s all the warning Peter gets before he explodes out of his arms, using his chest as a launchpad. He all but propels himself at the cruiser. While his fingertips swipe the air several meters short, Peter can only imagine what damage an adult Centaurian might have inflicted.

Yondu lands in a crouch, disturbingly animal. His crest flares with ruddy light, and Peter swears there’s a corresponding gleam from the little boy’s eyes.

It’s such a sudden departure from their clumsy toddler that for a moment, Peter’s lost as to what to do. But then Yondu growls. The noise bubbles from deep within that bare blue chest, which is prickling with goosepimples even when bathed in the vibrant Xandarian sunshine. He points at the Nova Cruiser, parking itself on the plateau opposite. His eyes dart frantically between it and Peter. Then, when Peter fails to pick up on whatever non-verbal cue he’s been given, Yondu retreats at a scurry to pull at Peter’s kneecaps, trying to urge him to join him in his floor-bound curl.

Oh.

Peter kneels, ignoring the stares from the other Guardians. The gentle flow of citadel-traffic splits around him and his charge; the population of this world are used to refugees and their odd customs, and don’t take much notice. He rests his hand on Yondu’s shoulder, enveloping it in warmth. He waits for Yondu to relax and lean into him – which Yondu does, although he keeps half an eye on the cruiser, suspicious in a way no three-year-old should be.

“Are you trying to protect me?” Peter asks.

Yondu has no idea what he’s saying – his language of clicks and whistles is incompatible with the translator chip his older self injected into Peter’s throat. But the butt of a tiny nose against Peter’s palm tells him he’s correct. Yondu cuddles his hand, trying to keep him from standing again, forcing him to remain a small target. Peter traces his cheek with his thumb, compressing baby-soft scales. “You got big birds where you’re from, huh? Bet they swoop down and chomp on little things like you for breakfast. But Yondu, you don’t gotta protect me. Not like this. I know you don’t know me, and you can’t even talk Xandarian yet. But right now, I’m the one protecting you.” He pauses. “If only because I can’t wait to tease you about this when you’re all grown up again. You needy little tyke.”

“Peter,” says Drax disapprovingly. He’s come to stand behind him, as have the rest of the Guardians-plus-Kraglin. But while Drax objects to Peter’s motivations, his appreciation of the first part of his speech is evident. He smiles, lips up-tweaked and entirely too kissable. Why, if they weren’t in front of the others, Peter would almost be tempted…

He stands, dislodging Yondu. The boy lets out an inhuman screech. It’s of a pitch that has all of them wincing. He tugs on Peter’s fingers and points adamantly at the cruiser – which has by now disgorged its pilot. It stands depowered on a plinth. Its brutal geometric design is the most dangerous thing about it. (Honestly, what were the Nova Corps thinking? Do they _want_ to be sued when someone pokes out an eye?)

But Yondu can’t know that. To him, it’s _enemy._ He quivers when Peter lifts him, whimpering in abject betrayal as if he expects to be sacrificed to the damn thing. Peter chuckles and flicks a pointed blue ear. “Idiot. I’m not gonna feed you to it. Not unless you annoy me.”

The similarity between that and Yondu’s favored threat – that he’d cook Peter for dinner if he misbehaved – is too strong to ignore. Smile freezing on his face, Peter swallows painfully. He lowers Yondu to the ground. The boy darts over and hides behind Drax’s calves. Drax sighs, circling his thumbs on the skin around Yondu’s crest.

“It will not harm you, little one,” he says. Yondu might not know the words, but he gets the gist. Drax’s tone, a thunderous bass rumble, proclaims him to be the most powerful monster around. He’s stronger than any spacecraft – or bird-of-prey, for that matter. Yondu can rest secure in the knowledge that Drax is on his side, that Drax will protect him, that Drax will stand between him and pain.

He creeps around the Destroyer’s knees, tiptoeing from his shadow as if afraid a too-loud footfall will wake the beast that slumbers in its dock opposite. When it doesn’t rouse, he gains confidence. It doesn’t take him a minute to forget his terror, and go about his business – running between Peter, Drax, Yondu and Rocket (who, despite his best efforts, hasn’t been able to convince the kid that he doesn’t like him) and generally getting underfoot. He doesn’t give the cruiser-bird another glance.

That’s a lot of implicit trust placed in their protection. Trust the adult-Yondu would never give. But as Peter’s starting to realize, little-Yondu couldn’t be more different from the captain he came to know (and maybe, very grudgingly, love).

Why does Peter have the feeling something terrible is coming? Some darkness that will cloud this bright horizon, destroy the small bright blue creature who plays hide and seek with Groot over Rocket’s flat-plastered ears…

Peter forces himself to look away. He’s being paranoid, he tells himself. Sure, little-Yondu’s not nearly as much of an a-hole as his older counterpart. Maybe he’s bottling up his grumpy side for later life. Peter’s just getting that stupid nurturing instinct again, the one that demands he cherish and protect and adore the brat, and all those other things Yondu never did for him.

He drops back, into step with Gamora. Yondu avoids her like she avoids him; either he’s more intuitive than he lets on, or just less familiar with the slim green women who’s isolated herself in the _Milano’s_ cockpit ever since they brought the squalling baby aboard. Her frown is a dose of reality. She’s not compromised by huge red eyes and itsy-bitsy wriggly blue toes; nosiree.

“Are we safe?” she inquires, pragmatic as ever. She nods to Kraglin. “If Obfonteri alerted the Shi’ar to our presence, perhaps he will attract as much attention here.”

Kraglin ignores her words. He’s in charge of the artifact, which is stowed out of sight – and hopefully, away from enterprising pickpockets – in a waist bag. (Peter got punched when he referred to it as a ‘fanny pack’. Given that Americanisms and Britishisms get muddled by his vocal-translator, who knows what Kraglin thought he meant.) For now, the man scoops up Yondu next time he scampers by. He spins him in a full circle, powered by his own momentum. The child’s laugh has a few passers-by glancing in their direction. They all coo and cluck when Kraglin sets him down and Yondu dizzily staggers back to Drax, grinning like he’s grabbed a handful of sunshine.

“What a sweet little boy,” Peter hears.

“So good of them to adopt…”

Peter’s smile wriggles onto his face without his permission. “I think we’ll be fine.”

 

* * *

 

Clothes shopping on Xandar vaunts few dangers. The Nova Corps don’t engage in bounty hunting – unless they’re corrupt, and most of those sods are stationed at the Kyln, far away from civilized society. Their organization isn’t interested in Ravagers unless they cause trouble. That’s why Yondu and Kraglin could visit the Broker in plain sight, so long as they didn’t start any fistfights along the way.

Xandar is a languid and lethargic place, summery all year around. There’s no such thing as a harried commuter. The multitudes on the streets ebb and flow like a tide, pulled to the phases of an unseen moon; Peter and the Guardians allow themselves to be drawn along.

After the part they played in protecting the planet from Kree invaders, you’d think they’d be celebrities. But none of them are keen on standing in ceremony. Well, Peter is if it’ll get him fame, money, and the attention of busty women. Especially if the announcers get his Outlaw Name right. But Rocket and Gamora had shied away from the celebratory broadcast Nova Prime offered. Feeling magnanimous, Peter settled for a deal that saw all of their crimes expunged, and allowed the Guardians to go on their way with minimal pomp and circumstance. As a result, they don’t have to worry about the paparazzi demanding to know where they got their new child.

Their _two_ new children, Peter should say.

He looks at Groot, who’s perched on Rocket’s shoulder. The pair whisper to each other, secure in each other’s company. Groot, being far too pure for this world, has yet to succumb to older child syndrome – he doesn’t begrudge Yondu for hogging the team’s attention. But Rocket dislikes it when Groot plays with Yondu. He cites their size difference and Yondu’s propensity for roughness. Peter suspects he’s jealous.

The seven of them pause outside of a promising-looking clothes store. Well, six of them pause. Drax grabs Yondu to prevent him from sprinting ahead and losing them – by the back of the fin, pincering the thin plane of red between finger and thumb. Yondu’s demeanor instantly changes. He droops limp, like a cub picked up by the scruff, and Drax changes his grip to his shoulder before Yondu’s knees give out.

It takes the kid a few seconds to return to his own head. Then he points through the window, tugging at Drax’s arm. Drax, eyebrow cocked, releases him – then winces as Yondu darts forwards, enraptured by the bright piles of cloth and ply-wefted fabric on display, and smacks face-first into the glass.

Rocket bursts out laughing. Yondu, rubbing his nose, balls his little fists. He growls at his reflection. Patting him soothingly, Drax steers him inside before things can develop into an all-out Yondu-versus-window brawl. Rocket, still sniggering, wipes his tears and shifts Groot higher up his shoulder so the tiny tree isn’t dislodged by his quaking back.

“Was that priceless or what?” he crows, swaggering into the shop. The doors fwoosh open in a gush of balmy air. The greeter frowns at the furry critter who’s just followed the mismatched pair of Destroyer and Centaurian over the threshold. He thinks better of commenting when faced by Drax’s glower. Rocket, either oblivious or putting up a damn good front, continues directing his conversation to Peter and Gamora. “We gotta invest in a camera. Record some of this.”

Kraglin steps forwards, covering Rocket with his stick-thin shadow. “Like hell I’mma let you blackmail my cap’n –“

Now would not be the best time to mention that he's already got plenty of baby pictures stored on the _Milano's_ internal harddrive. Barging between them, Peter slings his arm over Kraglin’s shoulders. “That’s enough of that. Krags, me and Drax are gonna get the kid his kit. Why don’t you try some team bonding with the rest of my guys?”

“We’re not a team,” says Kraglin, at the same time Rocket says “We’re not your guys.” Peter grins and pounds him on the back.

“There you go. Common grounds already. Now scat. And don’t fight, or daddy’ll be angry.”

“You are not our father either,” says Gamora. Kraglin’s smirk is all edge.

“Drax might disagree… Oof!” Peter leaves him curled around his bruised gut, which’ll be bearing the imprints of Peter’s knuckles for the rest of the day. He stalks over to Drax, who’s patiently gripping Yondu by the fin to prevent him from zooming between the display piles and racks of sleek Xandarian clothing like an M-ship that’s been tanked full of high-octane jet fuel.

“Why would I call you daddy?” Peter’s smile freezes on his face. He can hear Kraglin wheeze-laughing behind him. Dick.

“I’ll explain later,” he mutters.

Yondu doesn’t tug at Drax’s hold. He stands still as a soldier, protecting his delicate crest from damage. Red skin stretches between bone-like splints, which prong from each of Yondu’s vertebrate. It’s an elongated bat’s wing, growing directly from his spine. It glows around Drax’s fingerpads; the same color his eyes used to shine when he summoned the arrow.

Peter, not for the first time, wonders what the connection is between weapon, man, and fin. And how much it must’ve hurt to have sawn that fin off.

He touches Drax hand, partly as a sign for him to let their charge loose, mostly for the second of prolonged contact Drax allows before pulling away. “For now, let’s get the brat into something more durable than a loincloth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Longer chappie! Tell me if you liked it~**


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu does not like pants.**

The shopfront had looked lean when they entered: an orthogonal slab of sheet glass compressed by the buildings on either side. But those buildings open onto staircases and elevators leading up, whereas this department store is excavated deep into Xandar’s crust. The room resembles a spaceship. To account for the lack of windows, slideshows of the galaxy’s most stunning starscapes, gas giants, and billowing nebulae scroll across quartz plates, interspersed among the clothing rails at artful intervals. Consumers browse peacefully. They look clean, well-pressed. As if they haven’t seen a hard day’s work in their lives.

Peter knows that the tranquility is an illusion. As well as surviving Ronan’s siege, most Xandarian civilians came to this planet seeking refuge from various wars. But they’ve acclimatized to their new lifestyle of peace and prosperity, so much so that Peter feels uncomfortable in their company: an interloper struggling to pass as native, a veteran freshly returned from combat and unable to forget the adrenaline of warfare.

He knows the Guardians are suffering similarly. They huddle around the central display, not daring to stray from their herd, at once defensive and confrontational. The shoppers barely glance at them. But the Guardians – and Kraglin – scope every corner of the room obsessively, as if they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, the gunfire to pepper the air, the screams to start.

Yondu’s the only one unaffected. He leads Drax around the store, touching everything, grinning like an imp. He strokes the synthetic fur ruffs, pinches sleek silky ribbons between finger and thumb, and squints at the pair of pants Drax holds up as if he’s trying to work out what they are.

Drax smiles at the quizzical look – a disturbingly soft expression on such a chiseled face. And damn, if it doesn’t make the butterflies in Peter’s gut burst from their cocoons. He pins the pants to Yondu’s front. “These should fit.”

Peter blinks. “You’ve got a good eye.”

“Yes. It comes from experience, rather than innate talent.” For a moment, Drax’s smile edges into wistful remembrance. He’s thinking of his lost family. Mrs and Miss Destroyer. His mouth opens, struggling to find the words that will steer Drax towards happier thoughts, thoughts that’ll make that fragile smile rekindle. He’s about to blurt something stupid when Yondu gasps and grabs the pants, sandwiching them to Drax’s own in a moment of adorable revelation. He blinks up at Drax, then twists to treat Peter to an ecstatic grin – like a child being congratulated for saying its first words. “There,” says Drax softly. “Now let’s go get them fitted, hm? Good boy.”

Peter scoffs, crossing his arms. There Yondu goes, stealing Peter’s thunder as always.

A hulking Destroyer and a tiny blue Centaurian walk towards the wobbling, translucent forcefield that fronts an unoccupied changing cubicle. Unbeknownst to the onlookers – which by now include the Guardians, Kraglin, and several aaw-ing shoppers, whose faces contort into exaggerated expressions reserved only for babies and small fluffy animals – this is just the beginning.

Yondu gapes at the filmy skein. He pokes it, then whips his finger away before it can be engulfed by the forcefield’s light. Staring up at Drax, he jabbers something in his incomprehensible language and burrows beseechingly into his muscular side.

Little wuss.

Yeah, this’ll be the brat’s first proper journey to an offworld colony – the _Milano_ hardly counts, and the hospital may have been chock-a-block with aliens but Yondu was too young at that time to fully appreciate them. Peter should know better than anyone how it feels to be wrenched from everything and everyone you know and deposited alone in a cold unfeeling galaxy. Perhaps what’s rankling him is that Yondu’s _not_ alone. Not in the same way Peter was: to the extent where he could hide in the vents for three days and sob for a mother lost too soon, and no one would even _notice..._

Drax, infinitely patient, extracts the child from his leg. He leads the way, melding through the barrier as if he’s walking through fog. It turns opaque behind him, a blank white wall filling in between the ripples. Yondu waits a second, as if expecting a drumroll and a flourish. Then turns on Peter, face a picture of abject grief.

“Akgakhjakghakd’da!”

 _You were a shitty dad,_ Peter wants to tell him. _But I’m not gonna be. You ain’t gonna win this round, asshole._

“No, he says instead. “No, he hasn’t been eaten. You gotta follow him.” He wonders if this is how Rocket feels when he translates for Groot. Unlike that duo though, his comprehension of Yondu’s meaning isn’t reciprocal. Yondu stares at him, head cocked like a curious dog. Then his lips begin to wibble.

“Flarking hell,” mutters Rocket. Gamora preemptively covers her ears.

Before Yondu’s trembling chin can morph into full sobs, Drax pokes his hand through the barrier. It looks… warm. Big and calloused and inviting. If Yondu balks at taking it, Peter will happily assume his place.

But this is about the kid, not Peter’s burgeoning lust for his teammate. He nods, reassuring. “Go on.”

Tentatively, shyly, Yondu presses his palm against Drax’s. The contrast between them – miniature and blue versus giant and grey – has several of the shoppers cooing. Gamora’s sharp elbow, inserted under Peter’s ribcage, informs him he’s one of them. He clears his throat. “It’s okay kid. You can do it.”

And Yondu does.

Peter’s reassurances are redundant. Since the moment his fingers brushed Drax’s thumb and felt the solid pulse there, Yondu’s been grinning like a pit bull puppy. He still side-eyes the reflective forcefield – no doubt recalling his run-in with the window. But when Drax tugs, he follows, trusting as a lamb. The coos increase in volume as he allows himself to be led inside.

Kraglin sidles over to Peter and leans on the side Gamora isn’t occupying. “Y’know he hated pants? Even as an adult?”

Peter cranes away. Not just from Kraglin’s breath, which is as pleasant as that of any Ravager, but also from the recollections of the times he’d walked in on them growing up. “No. And I didn’t want to, neither. Keep your grossness to yourself; you’re the one who was bumping his ugly.”

The snicker is rich and filthy. “I’ll have ya know his ass is his prettier end –“

“Flarking stars, Krag. I don’t wanna know about you and Yondu’s pelvic sorcery. Please, for the love of God –“

Peter might not want to know about what Kraglin and his captain did behind closed doors, but he can’t help but be struck by a full-frontal picture of a very naked Yondu. Not wilfully, of course. Everyone in the room is treated to this self-same image. The three-year-old springs from the changing room like a magician emerging at the end of a trick, clad in his own skin and a deluge of salty tears.

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

“He doesn’t like the pants,” states Drax. He pushes through the translucent-turning barrier. Yondu squeals and sprints to Kraglin, cowering behind his legs when Drax brandishes the offending garments. He’s more shivery than before, now the adrenaline’s worn off. Goosepimples prickle his little blue butt. Kraglin turns on Peter, clasping the boy against him.

“Gimme yer jacket,” he says. Peter frowns.

“Why mine?”

“Because I’m in a jumpsuit, idjit. You want me to be as naked as him?”

Peter shudders. “God no.” He shrugs off the jacket, warmed by his bodyheat. Kraglin grabs it and drapes it over Yondu’s shoulders. Then bundles him up and lifts the ball of blue limbs and leather off the floor entirely.

“There we go,” he says as Yondu clutches the baggy material of his jumpsuit and buries his damp face in Kraglin’s neck tattoos. “Thas better.”

Shaking his head, Peter hails one of the clerks who’s been watching them barrel about the store in a mixture of concern (borne from being paid to clean up mess caused by rowdy toddlers) and delight (at the antics of the rowdy toddler himself). “Excuse me, ma’am. My. Um.”

“Son,” Drax supplies. Peter winces, but doesn’t protest.

“My son –“

“Our son.”

 _Don’t blush. Whatever you do, don’t blush._ “Our son doesn’t like the feel of these pants. Do you have any suggestions?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I love the idea of adult!yondu griping whenever he has to put on more clothes than a loincloth**


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which clothing is acquired, Peter flirts, and both he and Drax are idiots.**

The clerk smiles at Yondu. He pouts at her, around his sucked thumb. A spit-sticky hand shoots out to catch her purple curls. Kraglin moves Yondu to his other hip before he can latch on and pull, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. The girl pinches his cheeks, unperturbed. She affects a look of exaggerated shock that makes Yondu giggle.

“Oh gosh, he’s adorable. Does his species grow at the usual rate?”

“No,” says Peter after a pause. “Faster. Much, _much_ faster.”

She seems taken aback, but knows better than to comment. Xandar is home to all sorts; any shopkeeper who harbors old prejudices about skin color or tentacle quantity won’t stay in business long. “Okay. The stretchiest fabric we have is over in this corner. If you’d like to accompany me, sirs? And, uh. Ma’am. I’m sorry, are you all together?”

Gamora slides a half-step away, but nods. Grudgingly. The clerk claps her hands. “Collaborative parenting! What a wonderful idea.”

“I’m not his parent,” Kragliin protests. “I’m his –“

Peter slaps a palm over his mouth. Last thing they need is for the Xandarian Child Protection Agency to get involved. Stars know what’d happen then – what if they declare the Guardians unsuitable parents, and pawn Yondu off on some newlywed adoptees? Not that Peter thinks of himself as Yondu’s _parent._ But that doesn’t mean he’d sit by and let someone else make him theirs. “Ignore him,” he says. “He’s being a dick. As usual.”

Drax’s stare turns quizzical. “How can one ‘be’ a penis?”

The clerk gasps. She shoots a pointed look to the boy. Yondu, wriggling his ass in an attempt to find a comfortable position while balanced on Kragliln’s hipbones, doesn’t notice. Wincing, Peter rubs the back of his head.

“Uh, a prick, he means. Sorry ma’am. Literal species.”

“Ah.” Drax nods to himself as he folds Yondu’s discarded garments into pedantic squares. “That was a metaphor. I apologize for any offense caused.”

“No,” says the clerk faintly, as Drax approaches. “You’re fine.” He leans past her to lay the delicate, ruler-straight bundle on its original display pile. Her fuchsia skin turns violet at the proximity of his sculpted abdomen. Peter blushes too, although for very different reasons.

The poor girl’s been nothing but professional. Peter deplores violence against the fairer sex – unless they attack him first. So why’s he itching to plant his fist in her face?

Luckily, the clerk sidesteps Drax and gets to business. “Given your son’s rapid growth rate, we need fabric with a high elastic content. I’m afraid normal pants won’t be suitable. They’ll need to be custom-made.”

“Also,” says Gamora. “If he despises them so greatly, perhaps we should try a skirt?”

Rocket’s giggle spurts out his nose. Peter echoes him – until Kraglin slaps the back of his head. “No way,” the first mate grits. “Y’all heard that furry critter talk about blackmailin’ him before. I ain’t letting you put him in a dress.”

Drax examines the loincloth. It’s made from plush fabric, soft and scratchy, and a red that’s more merlot than madder. Almost the shade of Yondu’s future coat, in fact. It fastens about the waist with a simple string tie, the knot of which is too intricate for Yondu to undo or tighten by himself.

More evidence for those unseen, unknown parents. They lived on an uncontacted moon, a hundred parsecs away and fifty years ago, yet Peter feels an odd connection with them. He can’t picture their faces, and he doesn’t know their names. But their figures settle amorphously into his imagination: two stately blue hunters who rock little Yondu between them. While his loincloth is simple, it’s made with love. The band around the waist tie is inkle-woven, decorated with swooping zigzags, and the scuffed patches on the flaps indicate that it’s been frequently and vigorously washed. Stiff plaited fronds bat Drax’s nose as he holds it to the light. “Is this not very similar to a skirt?”

Rocket’s laughter has yet to decrease in volume. Groot smacks his cheek, bark scraping fur. “I am Groot!”

“Yeah, but it’s s-so funny… Flarkin’ Yondu Udonta, in a dress!”

“Shaddup, ya idiot,” Kraglin hisses. He sandwiches the boy to him, as if his scrawny arms can protect him from the galaxy at large, and makes a furtive perimeter-check. His paranoia’s unfounded: if anyone recognizes the name, they don’t let on. It means nothing to the clerk either. She approaches the boy again, ignoring Kraglin’s attempt to angle him out of reach, and sweeps her ponytail well out the way before poking his cute little button-nose.

“Boop! Well, I think he’d look adorable in a skirt.”

“That,” says Kraglin stiffly, edging away from her, “is the problem.”

Rocket, still sniggering, mutters into a claw: “Doesn’t sound like much of a problem to me.” Kraglin glares at him.

“It’ll sure ‘sound like a problem’ when he’s back to normal and whistlin’ through the lot of ya for humiliatin’ him before he knew what genders were…”

“I am Groot?”

“Nah buddy. _Gender._ Jen-dah. I’ll tell ya more when yer older.” The conversation is in danger of descending into an argument. Peter decides to put his womanizing skills to use. He treats the girl to his sunniest smile. Drax huffs and crossed his arms – Peter’d like to flatter himself and pretend he’s jealous, but the big guy’s probably just annoyed that he’s being a bad influence.

“Can you get him measured for one set of pants and one skirt then, ma’am?” Normal shirts won’t fit over Yondu’s crest – he’ll have to keep borrowing Drax’s until he’s big enough not to swim in them. The sight of him all bundled up like a caterpillar is making Peter contemplate the merits of stealing a shirt of his own for nightwear. And _that’s_ making him contemplate what it might be like to wake up besides Drax in the morning…

He steers himself back on track. Returning the sales girl’s nod with a wink and an exaggerated ‘call me’ motion, which has Drax scoffing, Rocket facepalming, and Gamora and Kraglin rolling their eyes, he saunters over and gives Yondu’s nose a boop of his own – who preens happily at the attention. “Thank you, darling. What time’s your shift over?”

It’s Drax her gaze lingers on. At Peter’s proposition, she hoists her nose into the air and turns in a flick of aubergine curls. “Good day, sir,” she says, cool and collected as if she hasn’t heard. “Please remain here while I have a colleague bag and fetch your purchase.” The tacit threat being: if he moves to follow, she calls security. Remembering the palaver at the hospital, Peter decides it’s in his best interests to stay put. Drax’s hand, parking on his shoulder with the weight of a small freight ship, reinforces her order.

“Peter,” he rumbles. Disapproval laces each syllable of his name. “Do not harass this woman. Let her go about her job.”

Peter half-heartedly tries for a smile and an elbow nudge. “I was only jealous because a pretty lady was looking at you instead of me. I can’t help it. I thrive off attention – ask Kraglin if you don’t believe me.”

The hand squeezes, kneading his collarbone like dough. It retreats, taking Peter’s breath and most of his shoulder cartilage with it. “I agree that you are an attention seeker,” Drax admits. “But as for why you are jealous… I find your excuse to be lacking.”

His gaze is too intent, too shrewd. What with his penchant for sticking his foot in his mouth – another metaphor that flies him by – it’s easy to forget how smart Drax is. Not just in a Walking Thesaurus kinda way either. Sure, his vocabulary’s larger than Peter’s list of conquests (no mean feat). But his intelligence goes beyond words. It’s a thorough probe that flips back the carpet of Peter’s soul and peers at all the grime that’s been swept beneath.

Peter hunkers low in his boots. “Yeah,” he mutters.

Yondu reaches for him. He has no idea of what’s going on around him, other than that one of his caretakers is sad. The incident from earlier – where Yondu had attempted to fight a Nova cruiser before it could swoop down and pluck Peter up in non-existent talons – still churns in Peter’s mind. No matter how many times he tells Yondu he’s not the one who needs protection, the little Centaurian doesn’t intend to give up.

He crooks a corner of his mouth, laying the flat of his palm against Yondu’s crest. “S’okay, kid. I’m not hurt. Just being told off – like you, when you’ve done something wrong.” The stretched red skin is velvety-smooth, and when Peter strokes the ridge of one tiny fin-bone Yondu purrs and nuzzles his hand. He may not understand the words, but he understands _something._ Peter can’t help himself. He presses a soft peck to his temple, over the place where a twisted cross-hatch of scar tissue will one day sit, earning a loud aaw from the shoppers.

Even Kraglin, still bristling at Gamora’s suggestion, seems mollified. He hefts Yondu further up his side, struggling with the weight. Yondu’s not big, not by any means – but lifting a three-year-old is a big deal when you have the approximate muscle mass of a famine victim. Peter helps get him settled. Yondu sits side-saddle, clinging to the ribbed frontispiece on Kraglin’s jumpsuit. The amulet’s stashed in its sling; its amber light makes the little centaurian’s bare limbs glow purple, where they peek from his jacket-fashioned swaddling. His big red eyes follow Peter as he breaks away from the group. But there’s no screaming, and Peter reaches the doors unhindered.

“You guys stay and sort out the fittings,” he says, hand raised above his head in a parting wave. “I’mma go back to the ship. I don’t know about you guys, but this place is way too quiet. Gives me the jeebies.”

Gamora nods, falling into step besides him with no small relief. “I do not know of what ‘jeebies’ you speak of Peter, but I too wish to return to the _Milano_.” _Rather than stay here._ That’s implicit, yet obvious nonetheless. Peter decides not to call her out on it. He has been meaning to collar his most sensible teammate for a heart to heart. She’s avoiding Yondu for a reason, and it’s time Peter found out why. What better opportunity than this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's been so long (by my standards). Sorry. I've been really sick this past fortnight, and just... Have had 0 energy for creative endeavors. Fingers crossed my brain'll boot up again soon!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Gamora is upset, Rocket is upset, Peter is upset... Eveyrone is upset.**

Peter doesn’t do subtlety. Or when he does, he doesn’t do it well. He rounds on Gamora the moment they ascend the gangway.

“Okay. Spill. You haven’t said one word to the kid since he arrived, and every time he’s in the room you look like you’ve swallowed a lemon. What’s wrong?”

Gamora looks at Peter long and hard. With most women, Peter is distracted from whatever expression their face might be displaying by the first hints of cleavage. However, while there’s a promising dark green shadow at Gamora’s neckline, Peter battens down his instinct to peek and forces himself to concentrate. He’s rewarded. He catches the flicker of uncertainty, before Gamora’s features ossify into their usual steely mask.

“It is in your imagination, Quill,” she says, turning into one of the slim corridors that shoot off from the _Milano’s_ central vestibule. “Perhaps you have become too attached to the child? You find anyone who isn’t similarly enamored with him suspicious.”

Peter opens his mouth to dispute – he’s _not_ attached to Yondu, he’s _not._ Then promptly shuts it again. “You’re deflecting.”

She pauses, not turning to face him. Light streams through the portholes. Glaring beams illuminate the inner ship, turning Gamora’s hair to fleecy ribbons of purple and her skin to burnished peridot. Between Xandar’s trio of stars, the sunlight is too concentrated to refract: it barely disperses as it enters Peter’s ship, carving illuminated wedges that make the rest of the _Milano_ look dull in comparison. Half in and half out of one such ray, Gamora is a visual metaphor for herself – something beautiful emerging from the darkness.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, and walks away. But when she hears Peter’s footfalls behind her, she doesn’t tell him to leave her alone.

 

* * *

 

They meander to the _Milano’s_ cockpit. They’re surrounded by reinforced glass on all sides. Peter knows that if this glass is tough enough to withstand the heat and friction of atmospheric re-entry, it can take any attack meted on them during peacetime. The worst the Guardians are likely to face is projectiles chucked by whichever Xandarian this parking space belonged to. But he still feels exposed, like a raw nerve.

Perhaps it’s residual fear from the last time they were here. The impact scars from the _Dark Aster_ are scoured into the earth not three miles away, like a batman symbol projected onto the ground rather than the sky. Or perhaps Peter’s just nervous about the conversation he’s initiated. Gamora is a woman of many secrets. Whereas Peter regales his crew with stories from his time on Terra and the rowdy Ravager upbringing that followed every time he gets drunk, Gamora is far more reticent.

It’s a surprise that she’s agreed to this heart-to-heart. But then again, Peter thinks, watching her trail wistful fingers over the ejector levers in the cabin roof, this particular secret has been weighing on her mind.

Gamora daintily takes the furthest chair, Peter straddling the one behind. The sunlight is rummy and clear. It highlights every speck of dust. But for once, it’s not the general dinginess of the _Milano’s_ interior that’s holding Gamora’s attention. She’s stroking the sun warmed console, nails clicking on the ridges between the depowered command relays.

“Thanos considered a Centaurian once,” she says quietly. Her pause lingers so long that Peter almost forgets that he’s here to listen and presses her for more. “As a daughter, I mean.”

Peter strives to look sympathetic, rather than nosy. “So you nearly had a blue baby sister? Another one?”

The unfocused look in her eyes sharpens at the mention of Nebula. “Unfortunately, she didn’t pass Thanos’s tests. Too young. Too… delicate.”

If she’d told him this a week ago, given that his then-experience of Centaurians would’ve been limited to a single wily bastard with a grin like a blue jack o’lantern, who could stroll into a firefight and out the other side without so much as a graze, Peter would’ve laughed in her face. _Delicate?_ Never.

But this juvenile side of Yondu forces him to accept that the Centaurians are, like any other race, fraught with their own unique weaknesses. He swallows, leaning forwards over his knees.

“’Didn’t pass’? How so?”

“She refused to kill the last survivor of her tribe in exchange for her own life.”

Short. Punctual. To the point. But oh-so-revealing. Peter blanches. “You mean when he chose you, you had to… With your own people…?“ He shuts himself up, jaw almost snapping with the speed with which he closes it. “Never mind. What did he do to her?”

Gamora turns to him then, and the age-old pain in her eyes is almost too much for Peter to bear. “He had me kill her, of course.”

 

* * *

 

Peter has so many questions.

_What tribe was she from? Do you think she’s related to Yondu? Why were there only two Centaurians left? What happened to the rest - and how long ago are we talking here?_

He voices none of them. Partly because this is when the other Guardians-plus-carry-on return to the ship; mostly because Gamora looks so wretched. The only thing stopping her from hiding behind her curtain of red dipped hair is her pride. Peter sees it in the tremble of her fists, which lay on her lap, knotted tight as the bolts screwing the cockpit in place.

Yondu announces their arrival by wriggling out of Drax’s grip – Kraglin’s arms must have gotten tired. The bouncy three-year-old sprints over, leaping onto Peter’s lap. Gamora can’t take it any more. Standing with a sharp creak of leather and taxed hydraulics, she barges Kraglin and Rocket out the way as she strides for the door. Rocket thumbs over his shoulder at her, bandit mask lopsided as he raises a bushy eyebrow. “What crawled up Greenie’s ass and died?”

Peter glances at Yondu. He’s registered Gamora’s swift departure. No doubt he’s put two and two together in that uncannily clever way of children. Peter forces him to look at him, cupping a blue cheek in each broad palm. “Not your fault, kiddo. She’s just a lil’ upset right now.”

Somehow, it’s important that Yondu understand this. The kid slumps over Peter’s knees, weight slight but unmistakable. Drax has wrangled him back into his loincloth – thank fuck, else they’d’ve been accosted by the Nova Corpsmen for indecent exposure. The scrap of red material does nothing to protect Yondu from the elements. Not that the weather’s particularly harsh; they’re inside a sealed spaceship on one of the sunniest planets in the quadrant. But Yondu’s still shivering. That’s not good.

Peter glances to Drax. “Pants a no-go?”

“He refused to try them again.”

“Right.” He studiously does not look at Kraglin. “Skirt it is. Let’s get him dressed, and then we'll head out for dinner. Preferably somewhere with heating.” Gamora can join them, if she wants. Although Peter suspects she’ll be staying here. He dislikes the idea of her keeping watch alone, curled tight as a woodlouse on her cockpit chair as she watches the merry Xandar denizens flock by. But he won’t force her to accompany them. He scritches his nails against Yondu’s crest, finding the spot that makes his leg tic. “You like that idea, lil’ guy?”

They might not speak the same language, but there’s some shared comprehension there; Yondu understands that while Peter’s words make no sense to him personally, they are not without meaning. He shyly touches Peter’s lips. The brush of delicate fingerpads makes Peter’s mouth tingle. “What you doing, kid?”

Yondu traces the shape of his words, red eyes thinned to slivers of concentration. He clumsily tries to emulate.

The results are hardly intelligible. But at least Peter realizes why older-Yondu always spoke like he’d just smoked a pack of twenty cigarettes. The boy winces, rubbing at his aching throat. Chuckling, Peter gathers his little hands together between his own, enveloping him in a sandwich of warmth, and rubs until Yondu’s fingertips lose that worrying ice blue hue.

“Guess your vocal cords weren’t built for Xandarian. Or your skin. Seriously though, you’re in direct sunlight here. Why aren’t you warming up?”

“I am Groot?” There’s a rustle of twigs, and a tug at Peter’s pantleg. Peter lowers one cupped hand for Groot to mount, and sits the second child on his lap too. Yondu even shuffles over to make room, waving at the tiny tree as if they hadn’t been side by side, clinging respectively to Drax and Rocket, five minutes beforehand. Peter smirks at the mental image of them jabbering away over their caretakers' heads, uncaring that their dialects are incompatible.

“There. Much better.”

Kraglin clears his throat, glowering at the shopping bag hooked around Drax’s wrist. “Peter. Listen. Shovin’ him in a skirt’s bad enough – but you ain’t takin’ him out in public. Not dressed like that.”

“Why not?” Peter jigs his knees, making the boys squeal happily and clutch each other. Groot’s arms sprout tendrils so he isn’t dislodged. “You guys did worse shit to me when I was a kid.”

For some reason, Drax makes an angry noise. While he doesn’t frown at Yondu (elevated above the Destroyer’s wrath by dint of being too small to punch), Kraglin receives the full brunt of his scowl. He withers in his boots, craning towards Rocket. Rocket shoves his calf.

“Don’t ya look at me, pencilneck. I ain’t gettin’ involved.”

“Yeah?” Kraglin challenges, trying to keep Drax in his peripherals and sneer at Peter at the same time. “Like what? Take ya in, when nobody wanted ya? Toughen ya up? Teach ya to survive?”

Oh, he does _not_ get to play that card. Peter’s smile turns glacial. “Like using me as Bilgesnipe bait.”

“Aw c’mon, that Bilgesnipe were so old it could hardly spit venom…”

“I nearly died, Kraglin.”

“But’cha didn’t. And why?”

The answer’s sitting on his lap, bare feet kicking back and forth and gaze swinging from Guardian to Ravager to Guardian again as if he’s watching a tennis match. _Because Yondu saved me. Like he always does, the a-hole._

Drax squints at Peter as if he’s puzzling out a Rubik’s Cube. He comes to a decision. “Obfonteri,” he says, voice weighty with imperative. “You will accompany me to find the Lady Gamora, and enquire if she will grace us with her presence tonight.” Then, when Kraglin makes to open his mouth – “You will not argue. Or I shall make you incapable of speech.”

Kraglin turns wan, jaw sliding shut. “Right,” he whispers, sidling out the door. “Sounds great. Seeya round, Pete…”

“Rocket too.”

Rocket hikes a rubbery upper lip. “Why’ve I gotta come on yer lil’ bonding adventure?”

“Because Peter is in an emotional state of mind, and needs to spend time alone with the child who was once his mentor.” Scratch all that crap about Drax’s stupidity being obfuscating. He’s as much an idiot as the rest of them.

Rocket barks a laugh, which transitions into an unconvincing fake coughing fit when Drax frowns. Peter would drop his head into his hands, if there weren’t two children leaning on him for balance. “Thank you, Drax,” he says. Drax, unaware of the sarcasm, nods and ushers the others to the cockpit ladder hatch.

“You are most welcome,” he rumbles, as Rocket lifts a questioning shoulder at Groot. Groot is too engrossed poking Yondu’s crest where it melds into his lower back to notice that he’s been addressed. Scowling, Rocket allows Drax to steer him away. “Now, let us find that green wench…”

He closes the trapdoor behind him. How considerate.

Peter, having foisted his retinue onto the one person who wants to be disturbed less than he does, feels anything but. Gamora isn’t going to be happy. Peter just hopes she asks questions first and stabs later. For now though, Peter’s got that whole ‘emotional state of mind’ thing to worry about.

“Yeah,” he mutters, poking Yondu in the belly. “You were a right monster to me, you were. Are. Will be.”

Red eyes blink without comprehension. Fuck. He’s so innocent it’s sickening…

He squeezes too tight. One little blue thigh gains the imprint of a hand. Yondu yelps, short and sharp like a kicked dog. Flinches back. Makes to scramble off Peter, eyes now filled with betrayal. And dammit, but Peter can’t bear the thought of hurting him.

He hugs him, not letting him escape. Groot, caught in the middle, manages to squeeze between them and mount Yondu’s shoulder. He climbs his blue skull, thin and smooth as a pigeon’s egg, to smack at Peter with tiny fists.

“I am Groot! I am Groot!”

But Peter just holds the fidgeting, whimpering boy until his attempts to escape fade into shivers. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against his temple. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Because even if his Yondu, older Yondu, would never say those words – words Peter deserves a thousand times over – Peter doesn’t have to stoop to his level. He’s already sworn to take responsibility, and that’s exactly what he’s going to do. Forget revenge or petty anger, or any of the other feelings that’ve been fermenting in his gut ever since this catastrophe was set in motion. Yondu is gonna have the best damn childhood with his space family. The only reason he needs to fear Peter is if he messes with his Walkman.

Speaking of…

While the kid isn’t actively fighting anymore, the tense vibration in his limbs indicates he’s far from at-ease. Peter unclips the cassette player from his belt, releasing Yondu to unhook his headphones. He’s gratified that the kid doesn’t bolt, although the cringe as Peter plops them over his head, bending down the fin, hurts almost as bad.

“Here,” he says, keeping his voice bright and smile chipper. “You like music?” Then, when Yondu cranes to see the contraption attached to his head – and almost spins himself off Peter’s lap, not realizing that his attempts to look at the headphones will only have them moving further away: “This’s better than any of Drax’s singing. I promise.”

Groot knows what’s coming. He slides down Yondu’s neck to perch on his shoulder, pressing his face to the spongey black headphone so he can listen too. But Yondu has no idea. Watching the wince as the music starts fade into awe, amazement, and joy, is better than winning the lottery.

“Yeah,” says Peter, as Yondu begins to sway along. “Things’re gonna get brighter, alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feed me your comments! Sorry for lateness - that sickyness from last week turned into a chest infection... :/**


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the Guardians-plus-carry-on head out for dinner, Kraglin disapproves of Yondu's outfit, and Yondu learns his first Xandarian word.**

Four-year-old Yondu is much the same as three-year-old Yondu, yet at the same time entirely different. He’s bigger. Taller than Rocket. Still chubby with puppy-fat, but with legs that look capable of running for more than five yards before tripping over themselves. But while his bird-twitter babble sounds less nonsensical, it has yet to register with Peter’s translator. His right leg still twitches when you scratch his crest – although Kraglin informs Peter it does that as an adult too. And, of course, he remembers them.

He gives them a bright grin and a wave as soon as he appears. Peter wonders how he explains them to his parents. Are they imaginary friends? Dream companions? Do the twenty-four hours Yondu spends with them register as such to him, or is it more like a long and adventure-filled, half-remembered sleep?

Peter’s gotta start making notes of all these questions, so he can ask Yondu after he learns Xandarian. Although, with that in mind, if Centuarians are raised monolinguistically and without intergalactic contact, how did Yondu become fluent in that language in the first place?

Peter won’t get anywhere mulling over what he can’t answer. Sighing, he pushes the kid to Drax, who takes his hand while Groot assumes his usual position on Rocket’s shoulder. Gamora slopes at the rear of the group. When she catches Peter watching her, she nods. Peter returns it, hoping his smile doesn’t look as goofy as it feels. Yes, Gamora’s got issues. Yes, it’ll be a long time before she’s anywhere near _okay._ But she’s redefining herself slowly, becoming the woman she wants to be – just as Drax is becoming a protector rather than a destroyer, Rocket and Groot are becoming respected individuals rather than nameless experiments, and Peter is becoming Starlord. They’re all improving, if only in baby-steps. But Peter would love them even if they weren’t. He’s just glad to have his family back together.

Kraglin looks less amused. Drax hadn’t let him help Yondu into his chosen garment – either because he suspected he’d rip it out of pique, or because he’s still leery of Kraglin’s presence. For now the Ravager mate watches the brat dancing around Drax’s legs with a scowl, his arms crossed and his back hunched in a taut curve.

Peter rolls his eyes at him. “Stop being such a baby. It’s just clothing.”

“It’s a skirt,” says Kraglin flatly. “He’s a Ravager. A damn Ravager _Admiral_ at that. Pete, what if someone recognizes him –“

“He’s also a kid. No one’s gonna look at this cutie and think _big nasty space pirate boss._ ” A squeeze of Yondu’s round blue cheeks confirms it. He’s lost that baby-toddler cuteness, only to have it be replaced by a more rambunctious, pixieish vibe that’s no less adorable, just more energetic. As soon as Peter releases him, he starts swarming Drax’s leg. He shook the socks off his feet no matter how often they replaced them, and so his bare toes cling to Drax’s shin-guard, prehensile as a monkey tail. His skirt swings around his ankles. It's loose enough that he can comfortably climb. Peter watches his progress, amazed at how he latches onto the tiny ridges on Drax’s thigh plate and uses them for purchase to pull himself up until he’s comfortably arranged in a piggyback position.

Drax, who’s made no attempt to help or halt him, looks similarly impressed. Peter has to look away before he’s accused of staring. “Anyway, what’s wrong with skirts? Right, Gamora?”

“Right,” says Gamora. Her hand lingers over her sword hilt. Kraglin’s Adam’s apple bobs the entire length of his gangly throat.

“Right,” he echoes. But then, in endearing hope – “Drax, why don’tchu show Yondu how to wear pants again? Properly this time. Ya can use Quill as yer model…”

A-hole. Peter’s about to tell him where he can shove his stupid attempt at matchmaking; however, Drax beats him to it. He looks up from where he’s straightening Yondu's oversized shirt. His gaze connects with Peter’s, almost by instinct, like magnets draw together at the poles. Peter’s words splinter in his throat.

“Yes,” says Drax, after a too-long pause. “After we eat, I shall demonstrate how to take Peter’s pants off.” Another beat, during which Rocket sniggers noisily and even Gamora cracks a smile. “…And put them back on again.”

Dammit.

“Do I get a say in this?” Peter manages, as his team file for the exit hatch. “Guys, c’mon. Guys?”

 

* * *

 

The diner’s swanky, shaped from curved silver that’s been polished so vigorously that Peter can see his face in it. (He gives himself a wink and draws a pair of finger-guns, only to sheepishly reholster them when he catches Gamora shaking her head.) It also makes his bank account hurt. He takes one look at the menu and shudders.

“Why in flarking hell did you choose this place?” he asks Rocket. Rocket, self-conscious from the amount of stares turned in their direction as a large grey man with a blue child on his back leads a whip-thin green-skinned cyborg, two Ravagers, a tree, and an animal through the frosted double-doors, juts his snout at Yondu.

“He got money, don’t he? If we’re lookin’ after his sorry lil’ ass, payin’ us proper is the least he can do.” That startles a laugh out of Peter. Rocket glowers. “What?”

“You think Yondu’s gonna pay us? _Yondu?_ Dude makes Scrooge McDuck look generous.”

“Screw McWhat?”

The greeter sidles over to Drax, peering at him from under fuzzy brows. Dude’s of a species with the Broker. Yondu leans his little chin on Drax’s shoulder and reaches out to touch those appealing lines of fluff, making the greeter crane away. “Um. Sir. Would you and your… posse like a table?”

Drax calmly gathers Yondu’s hands, lifting him off his back to stand by his side. The greeter’s tempting eyebrows are now well out of reach. Yondu pouts and kicks Drax’s ankle, but quickly looks away when Drax glares, pretending he never moved. “My family,” he corrects in a somber rumble. “And yes. We will sit at one of your feasting tables. And place bets at your lizard-baiting venue, and put intoxicating liquids into our bodies –“

Peter fastens a palm over Drax’s mouth. “What my friend _means_ to say is, can we please have adjustable chairs? Some of our legs are longer than others.”

Eventually, they settle in the middle of the dining floor. Peter prays no one from the clothes shop has decided to eat out, or else they might be facing some difficult questions about why their charge has suddenly aged a year. But on the whole, the curious gazes from the other patrons have frittered away. They only glance over at Kraglin (who, in a brief but heated kerfuffle, has to be shown which way up to hold the menu) or at Rocket, who shouts “flark!” when Yondu, seated opposite, dives across the table to catch a bug that’s been buzzing about their heads. He traps the poor thing – some harmless derivate of a moth – in cupped palms. He presents his finds to Rocket. For some reason, he seems dismayed when Rocket pulls a face and squashes it under his coaster.

His crest flickers amber. He tries to pry the coaster off the moth, whose body has burst like a popped zit, as if he can still save it.

Peter tugs him away. “Don’t touch it! It’s dirty.”

Rocket scrapes the mucus-like substance onto the back of one claw, then raises it to his mouth to lick. Peter glares at him. “Rocket! Set a better example.”

Rocket, still sucking bug-juice from his finger, sticks up his middle finger. Peter flips a bird in return. They posture at each other, glaring, ignoring the server who’s vainly trying to catch their attention and collect their drinks order. Everything’s fine and dandy – until Yondu peeps at Peter from the corner of his eye, and a pair of little blue hands join his: knuckles facing Rocket with the central digit raised.

Rocket cackles. Gamora exercises her patented eyeroll. Kraglin grins at Yondu in encouragement and adds his own fingers to the mix – until Drax growls. Then Peter, Rocket, and Kraglin sit on their hands. Yondu’s flipped birds stay erect a little longer. He glances between them, wondering why they’ve stopped. Then spots Drax’s murderous glare. He folds his hands on his lap. Makes his eyes all big and beguiling. Leans his cheek on Peter’s arm, his bodyweight slight and warm, and blinks up at him as if he wouldn’t hurt a fly – or squash a moth, as the case may be.

Butter wouldn’t melt in that mouth.

Or at least that’s what Peter thinks, before Yondu demonstrates what else he’s learnt from Rocket today. “Flark!”

There’s a silence.

“What,” says Peter faintly, counting the pulse in the vein bulging from Drax’s forehead, “did you say?”

“Flark,” says Yondu again, and waves at the goggling server. “Flark?” When he gets no reaction, he puts up his middle finger. “Flark!”

“Yeah, flark you!” says Kraglin around his sniggers. Yondu’s smile reaches each ear. “Thassit! Good boy!”

“No,” grits Drax. “Bad boy. Very bad boy. Such language is not suitable for the table.”

Ugh. Why does Drax’s prim-and-proper voice have to be so hot? For some reason, Peter’s mind disgorges the image of Drax in a schoolmistress’s outfit, tutting as he smacks his switch off his palm. Best not indulge that sort of thinking while they eat, or he’ll set an even worse example regarding inappropriate dinner behaviour. He pokes Yondu’s fingertips until they tuck down. “No flark,” he says, shaking his head for emphasis.

“Flark?”

“No. _No_ flark.”

“Ah.”

“That’s right. You got it, kid.” Peter turns his beam on the waiter, who by now wishes he’d selected another table. “I think we’re ready to order.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which there is an (underage) kiss - be ye warned; Drax ruins a perfectly expensive dinner, and Yondu is grumpy.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Mouth/mouth kiss with a horrifically underage child. It's not sexual at all. Fret not.**
> 
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> **Also: flashbacks.**
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> ****

The table looks like crushed ice, trapped beneath the sheet-smooth surface of a frozen lake. Their meals are similarly pellucid: this is one of Xandar’s many crystal-restaurants, and each dish is a unique artwork, nutrient flakes sculpted into jagged stalagmatic formations that split the light like a prism. It is, the Guardians discover, prettier than it’s tasty. And far, far more expensive.

“You guys’d better be helping me foot this bill,” Peter says, through a mouthful of crunchy crystal. It’s like sorbet: flavored too delicately for any but those of the most discerning palates to appreciate. Peter’s no scanty eater, and the portions, as with all haute cuisine, are scarcely large enough to taste. He’s afraid he might have to go for seconds. And that he'll be bankrupted in the process.

Rather than turning out his pockets, Rocket points his fork at Kraglin. “Why don’tchu ask him?”

Kraglin, cheeks stuffed, pauses from his shovel of food into a seemingly-bottomless gullet. “Huh?”

“Well, blue boy here had a stash, right?” The fork swivels to Yondu – who has bypassed cutlery entirely and is scooping sticky wadges up bare-handed, much to the disgust of their fellow diners. Centaurians evidently don’t use eating utensils. He’s more interested in the way the spoon distorts his reflection than using it to eat with. “I say we milk him for it. You just point me in the right direction, pencilneck. I’ll have his accounts wiped dry before the day’s through.”

Kraglin swallows, thin throat distending around its load. How he consumes so much while retaining his figure – which goes beyond ‘svelte’ and into ‘skeletal’ – is beyond Peter. “You gotta be jokin’,” he sputters. Then, before Rocket can deny it – “Yondu don’t trust no _bank._ His loot’s stashed somewhere secret.”

That’s news to Peter. Although looking back, it shouldn’t be.

“Well, where is it?” he asks. Then, at Kraglin’s glare – “Hey, raising a child costs thousands of units! Why shouldn’t I wanna buff my coffers a bit? Especially at the old man’s expense.”

“We’re raising him for fifty days,” Gamora points out, the first time she’s spoken since they ordered. “And he’ll spend most of that time as an adult.”

“And anyway,” growls Kraglin, “you already robbed him of four million units when ya took that orb. You really wanna add more to yer debts?”

No, thinks Peter.

“Hell yeah,” Rocket says. Then, before Peter can dive across the table and shove his spoon in his mouth to shut him up – “Really, the guy oughta be grateful we didn’t leave him for dead.” Rocket doesn’t mean that. Rocket’s just irritated Groot enjoys spending time with someone his own age. But grumpy though he might be, not even Rocket would wish death on a child.

Kraglin doesn’t know that.

His chair screeches back from the table. When his hands slam down on it, the whole contraption rattles, their meals along with it. Yondu, sat between him and Peter, is valiantly piecing together what’s going on. His crest flickers again – that luminous pink glow that makes his fin look like a neon clublight. It’s as if he’s tapped directly into Kraglin’s synapses, felt the rushing roar of his rage. Gasping, he sets his unused spoon down with a chink, and grabs Kraglin’s hand.

That’s so unlike what any of them would expect from Yondu that they all stop and stare. Kraglin’s angry riposte dies on his lips. He lifts his hand, staring at Yondu’s sticky, crystal-smeared blue one, which clings to it like a limpet to a rock at low tide. He waggles it a bit. His jaw drops when Yondu holds him tighter, negating any chance that he could’ve latched on by accident. “Uh, boss?”

Yondu intertwines their fingers. He’s watching Kraglin very seriously, bottom lip sticking out in a near-pout from the force of his frown. He tugs on Kraglin’s hand. Points imperiously to his chair.

“He wants you to sit,” translates Drax, not that it’s necessary. Stumped, Kraglin does so. But Yondu doesn’t release him; transferring his bowl to the other side, he continues to scoop up his meal cackhanded. Peter’s glad Yondu’s not just diving in face-first. Kraglin’s outburst has garnered them enough attention already. When Kraglin fails to resume eating, Yondu clicks under his breath in his native tongue, a sound that reminds Peter of his grandma tutting. Lifting the nearest piece of cutlery with far too much care, he scoops up a spoonful, mimicking the Guardians, and presses it to Kraglin’s mouth.

Kraglin turns his head. He’s blushing, just a little. Peter supposes that holding hands with a four year old – much less having that same four-year-old feed him – is a blow to his silly space-pirate pride.

Yondu doesn’t take the rejection well. He scrambles upright on his chair, skirt swinging around his ankles and ignoring Peter’s protests. His head’s about on height with Kraglin’s, who remains seated – but the Ravager is too shocked to do more than boggle as Yondu plops the food into his own mouth, chews until the crunchiest crystals have been mulched, and then swoops forwards to press sugar-stained lips on Kraglin’s.

Drax hoists him bodily away before Yondu’s little fingers can dig into the joints on Kraglin’s jaw and make him open his mouth. He’s scowling. Peter can practically feel the heat of his fury, flaring quasar-hot at his back. If he were Kraglin, he’d be struggling to keep the contents of his bladder where it belonged right now.

But Kraglin just touches his lips, eyes a little starry. He licks the sweetness away, seemingly unaware of the fact that every eye in the restaurant is now pinned on him. “Uh,” is all he manages to say – before Drax shoves Yondu onto Peter’s lap and picks him up by the throat.

“I have warned you, Ravager! You will pay for this!”

Peter, stunned by the speed at which the past five seconds flew by, is left dumb. All noises fade. The shattering crashes from where Kraglin scrabbles behind himself in his fight for air, pushing glasses and plates to the floor; Drax’s wrathful roar that promises the entire restaurant is due to be redecorated with Kraglin’s entrails; Gamora’s screeches for them all to just calm down and stop shouting... Peter’s left with a tiny skirt-clad Ravager Admiral, who shrinks away from the furious Destroyer, crest strobing like a disco light.

And he recalls a time not so long ago, when he felt he still had a future with the Ravager band. A time when Kraglin had been the one who considered leaving.

Peter found him in the M-ship dock late at night. The first mate had been angrily ramming supply crates and personal belongings through the hatch of his ‘Bird. Guys like Kraglin tended to subsist on what they could carry in a crisis; it showed how many roots he’d put down that he had enough possessions on board the _Eclector_ to fill two small shoulderbags.

Peter had dithered a mere moment. Then he’d decided that life would really be a lot worse without Kraglin, who had mastered the knack of diverting Yondu’s boundless energy into productive avenues rather than the butchery of his own crew whenever he got bored. He’d hastened to him, hands upraised palm-out to show he wasn’t armed. He needn’t have bothered. Kraglin was so angry, mouth pinched tighter and whiter than Peter had ever seen it, that he didn’t notice Peter’s approach until he tapped him on the shoulder. Then he punched him in the face.

Afterwards, once he’d helped Peter clot the nosebleed and the pair of them were perched on the M-ship’s wing, watching the rainbows of the lightspeed drive gush by through the hangar forcefield, Peter worked up the courage to ask.

“What did he do this time?”

He might as well have unbunged a dyke. He’d snuck out of his dorm out-of-hours in the hopes of nabbing a midnight flight in the M-Ship he was as-of-yet not officially pilot of. Instead he became a reluctant relationship counsellor. As it turned out, Kraglin’s cold feet were not due to any particular incident. It was an amalgamation.

Yondu kept his rooms too hot and stole his clothes.

Yondu cared more about his dashboard ornaments, which might crack in a rough landing, than he did about Kraglin.

Yondu never brought him nice things for no other reason than that he could; Yondu cheerfully took work-related calls while Kraglin was trying to screw him; and, most importantly, Yondu never reciprocated kisses.

Peter, still mock-vomiting over the penultimate complaint, dug a finger in his ear in case he’d heard wrong. “What?”

Kraglin’s eyes were big, aggrieved, and watery. They looked ridiculous in his gaunt stubbled face, and if Yondu were here no doubt he’d have told him as such, without stopping to consider that he might be making the situation worse.

“He never kisses me, Peter! Ever! And if I try, I just get shoved away! Like, I get that he prefers punching as a way of showin’ affection –“ He wasn’t wrong there; Peter had bruises to attest. “– But this is ridiculous! If he wanted to frutak without all the other relationship stuff, that’s cool. (Quit retching, you dumbass.) But he can’t expect me not to want _more_ when we’re together most hours of the day! Well, I’ve had enough. I’m done. I’ve told him so, and you know what he did?” Peter shook his head, already wincing on Kraglin’s behalf. Kraglin’s next words, delivered with a self-deprecating cackle that was anything but humorous, made him cringe all the more. “He laughed in my face! He said I’m being flarkin’ _oversentimental,_ and that if he wanted a woman he’d have dated one! So yeah. That’s it.” The fight seemed to fade out of him, leaving a ragged and defeated man in its place. “No more apologies, no more nothing. He can wake up tomorrow to an empty bed and no First Mate, and I wish him all the flarkin’ luck in the galaxy!”

Peter struggled to process. It was more than he’d ever heard Kraglin spout in a single sitting.

“Where will you go?” he asked weakly. Was this what kids felt like when their parents got a divorce? A part of him wanted to cuff Kraglin to one of the _Eclector’s_ many knobbly wall pipes, force him to keep providing a fragment of the stability that had been woefully lacking in Peter’s life since he was wrenched away from Terra as a boy. But another part of him refused. Peter liked to consider this part ‘Adult-Quill’. It reminded him when he’d left bolts in his plasma pistol, prodded him when he was sleeping in, and occasionally informed him that his shoddy plans required more than twelve-percent effort. Right then, Adult-Quill insisted that he let Kraglin and Yondu work this out on their lonesome. This was between two grown-ups, and as a very-nearly-grown-up himself, Peter decided it would be wrong to interfere.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t fret. “What will you do, if you leave the Ravagers?”

Kraglin scowled at his fists, balled up tight as sailor-knots on his knees. “I don’t know,” he husked, voice almost breaking on the last word. “I don’t flarkin’ know Petey. But for now, so long as it ain’t here, anywhere’ll do.”

Of course, it hadn’t worked out like that. Peter had sat up and kept Kraglin talking – doing what Yondu should’ve done, letting him work through all that cumulated pain and rage – until the wee hours of the morning. He’d convinced Kraglin to camp out in another dorm rather than leave outright, while Peter hid his M-ship on the _Eclector’s_ dark side. Just to see what Yondu would do.

Kraglin, appeased by the time the captain activated the emergency alarms and dragged all crew out of their beds, including those who’d recently entered the down-cycle, and began preparing operations for a quadrant-wide search-and-rescue, sauntered out of his hidey hole around lunch. He took the punch with dignity.

Yondu had yelled after that. Yondu had yelled a lot – but most of it had been behind closed doors in their cabin. The rest of the crew were left to shrug and wander back to bed, deciding it was easier not to contemplate whatever domestic had riled their captain and his mate. But Peter, who’d shamelessly eavesdropped until the yelling turned to sounds that implied Yondu and Kraglin had selected their tried-and-tested means of argument resolution, was pleased to note that Kraglin got in plenty of shouting too.

Next day, Kraglin wore the black eye with pride. Yondu bore his limp and the hickeys with considerably less. But while to Peter’s knowledge kissing didn’t become any more commonplace in the ongoing trainwreck that was the Obfonteri-Udonta household, Kraglin did mellow out significantly over the following weeks, to the point where he didn’t grit his teeth and storm out the room if he heard his captain’s name. It seemed they’d compromised. Yondu made his division between work-time and Kraglin-time significantly more defined, and even told Peter he’d be taking an off-week at some point in the upcoming astral decade, so he and Kraglin could kick back and relax together properly.

He’d asked Peter to make sure his boys didn’t all butcher each other in the meantime. As Peter’d left before he got to fulfil his end of that bargain, he wonders if Kraglin and Yondu ever managed to scrounge those days of bliss in each other’s company, or whether they had to throw themselves back into work wholeheartedly to make up for lost revenue. Almost undoubtedly the latter.

But what all of this pontification leads to is one particular thought; one which bursts out of Peter’s mouth before Drax can force his thumbs through Kraglin’s trachea and out the other side.

“Flark, Drax! Centaurians don’t even know what kissing is!”

Drax’s fingers loosen on Kraglin’s neck. Not completely – just enough to let him drag a hungry gulp of air, bruised skin flexing under Drax’s palms. Damn, those palms. They have enough strength to bend I-beams; Kraglin should be grateful Drax took the time to strangle him precisely rather than wrenching his head clean off. Imagining what those hands could do to Peter in another context – a context involving wining, dining, and possibly a hotel bed strewn with rose petals, because Peter’s an old-fashioned kinda guy – shouldn’t be so arousing. Especially not in a situation as dire as this.

Drax looks at him quizzically. “What did you say?”

“That Centaurians don’t do kissing!” The only person more confused than Drax is Yondu, restrained from leaping into the fray by Peter’s arms, which make for a pair of muscular seatbelts. He tries nevertheless, hissing and writhing. Kraglin’s designated mouthful dribbles down his chin. Peter nods to it, pulling a face. “Look. He was just trying to feed him. Like a baby bird, y’know?”

Kraglin’s head flops on the end of his long thin neck (longer and thinner than ever now, after Drax’s squeezing). “He’s right,” he chokes. “Think about it – Centaurians use mouths as weapons, right? What use’d they have for make-outs?” Despite his ragged voice, he sounds awed, as if he’s only now reaching this conclusion himself. Drax remains unconvinced though. The hands bracketing Kraglin’s throat confirm it. But he does concede this point. His eyes narrow as he tilts to look at Yondu sideways. The boy stares back, eyes pleading.

“I will,” he declares, “give you one more chance. Not because I trust you. But because I hope you are smart enough to never do this again.”

He unclasps his hands, letting Kraglin collapse backwards across their ruined dinner. He reaches for Yondu, looking to stroke his crest. Yondu snarls and snaps at his fingers, before pressing his face into Peter’s jacket. He refuses to look at him.

Caught in the middle, Peter has to suffer Drax’s deepening frown, then his hurt realization, as well as Yondu’s quiet hisses, which puncture the tense atmosphere like pins pricked into a balloon. He pats the Centaurian’s quivery little back, rubbing where the fin dips in close to his spine. The skirt’s waistband crimps it, so Peter folds it as low as he can while still keeping the brat’s dignity. Whatever dignity hasn’t been thoroughly obliterated by him wearing a skirt and kissing his first mate in the same damn day, that is.

Oh yeah. Yondu’s gonna kill them all when he’s back to normal; there’s no doubt about it.

But for now, Yondu’s growling high in his chest, like a scared lion cub that’s trying to threaten. Peter keeps rubbing his back, hoping to soothe. “Uh, there there. It’s alright now. Daddy’s not fighting, um, uncle Kraglin anymore.”

Daddy and um, uncle Kraglin take in their new nicknames and stare at Peter with antithetical delight and horror. But there’s no more strangulation, so Peter counts it as a victory. He lets Yondu cuddle him, and sniffle on him, and wipe his food-smeared hands on Peter’s jacket, and wonders if all parents feel this helpless.

Sensing that the worst of the danger has passed, a man steps forwards, wringing his stringy pink hands. He must be the manager. He’s got a toupee perched on top of an elongated skull, and he picks at his fingernails in agitation as he approaches. “Gentleman – and ma’am. Please, I’m very sorry but I must ask you to leave. You’re disturbing the guests.”

“What about the damage?” asks Gamora, before Peter can stop her. “Or the food?”

The manager peeks at Drax from his peripherals. Drax only has eyes for Yondu, who remains plastered to Peter’s front and cringes whenever the Destroyer moves. The big guy looks like his heart’s breaking one beat at a time. Peter can’t bear it. But he still cuts an intimidating figure, and the manager thinks twice about milking them for cash. “Don’t worry about that. Please, just go. Otherwise I will have no choice but to inform the authorities… I’ve heard that they are on the hunt for some Ravagers after an incident with Shi’ar medical stock. While you do not seem to be the culprits, an incident like this would give them more than enough excuse to apprehend you.”

That’s the last thing they want. Gamora, bless her noble heart, looks as if she’d like to stay and argue the point, forcing the manager to accept their hard-earned credits. Peter steers her for the door with all due haste.

“C’mon, guys,” he says. Yondu trots besides him, shooting snooty glares at Drax that’d be hilarious in any other circumstance. Aware of his sulking, Drax offers Kraglin a hand up. He’s smacked away. Peter rolls his eyes. He adds this to his list of _Things To Deal With Later,_ alongside that little titbit of information that confirms what he already knew: that the Ravagers under Taserface are branching out into new and exciting ventures, hijacking Shi’ar medships and making off with their cargo. Something tells him that’s gonna be a problem in future – but for now, he doesn’t have the energy. “Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tell me what you thouuuuuught.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Drax plays nice, Yondu holds grudges, and Rocket offers advice.**

They have two hours left on the clock, and Drax is fretting. Peter’s never seen him fret before, and now it’s happening he wants to bundle his teammate up in soft blankets, sit him somewhere warm and quiet, and wheedle a promise out of him that he’ll never fret again.

He paces from one end of the conjoined _Milano_ and Ravager warbird to the other. He broods: heavy brows low as if they’re being crushed by an invisible anvil. And he watches Yondu. Yondu, who brushes the band of bruising around Kraglin’s neck with painstaking care, then twists to spear Drax with a glower.

“Old enough to hold grudges, huh,” says Rocket. He’s flat-out in an alcove halfway up the common room wall, idly tossing a bolt.  _Pap, pap, pap_ it goes as it lands on his paw, accompanied by the hum on the cusp of audible hearing, as internal mechanics calculate the minute altercations requisite to Rocket’s seamless one-handed juggle.

Peter may not be mechanized, but that doesn’t mean he can’t pull some slick moves of his own. He waits for the opportune moment. Then, as Rocket’s jaw pops around a yawn, snatches the bolt from mid-air. “Quit it,” he says as Rocket’s eyes snap open. “You’re being a pest. If you can’t think of anything to help Drax make things up to Yondu, we don’t need your commentary.”

Rocket gives one of his nastier sneers a test-drive. “Oh, ya wanted _advice?_ Well, why didn’t ya ask? I am a certified genius, after all.”

 _Certified only by scientists who thought it was cute to make a rodent walk upright,_ Peter thinks. He manages to keep his mouth shut. Rocket doesn’t deserve that sort of jibe, even on a semi-conscious level, and Peter spares a moment to sternly smack his mental self into shape. When he speaks, it’s only mildly disbelieving. “Where does it say ‘Agony Aunt’ on your resume?”

Rocket’s sneer grows. He swings to sit, hind legs dangling a whole meter off the floor. “Hey, just cause I ain’t the sociable type personally don’t mean I can’t watch. And it definitely don’t mean I can’t learn. Right, Groot?”

“I am Groot.” Peter hadn’t noticed the tree, curled as he was into Rocket’s jumpsuit-clad side. He shoots him a harried smile.

“Well, that’s a judgment I trust, at least.”

Groot beams at him, and Rocket magnanimously allows him to climb onto Peter’s hand when it’s held out. His scowl doesn’t abate though, and Peter wonders whether it’s wrong of him to show favoritism. Not that he doesn’t like Rocket. He loves him, in fact – like he loves all his newfound family. But with Rocket, that love takes a very specific form. It’s agapaic and unconditional, reliant on saintly forgiveness and nigh-infinite patience. Peter lacks both. Dealing with Groot is effortless in a way talking to his furry companion can never be. And while Peter will never begrudge Rocket for being who he is, sometimes he does get… tired.

In this instance at least, Rocket proves that hidden depths undercut the Guardians’ snarky, sniping weapons expert. “Pants,” he says, snapping his fingers. Peter looks at him as if his internal circuitry’s on the fritz and he’s started speaking gobbledegook.

“What?”

“Pants! Y’know, Kraglin wanted Drax to show Yondu how to wear ‘em, so he doesn’t have to stay in uh…” Rocket’s mouth crimps up, and he tips a smirking nod at Yondu, who’s swishing about happily in his floor-length skirt. “His latest accessory.”

Peter pauses for further enlightenment. None follows. “And then?” he prompts.

Sighing as if he’s talking to the slowest kid in class, Rocket massages between his whiskery black eye-patches. “Ya use your cute lil family bonding moment to convince the kid that everything’s happy in la-la land. Or wherever it is that the four of you are living now. Feel free to come back to Earth anytime, Quill – Gamora’s okay, but her grumps make the whole ship dimmer.”

Peter jumps, before he realizes Rocket didn’t actually say _Earth._ Peter’s only hearing it as a result of his translator. “Right,” he croaks. Who knows? It might work. Tell Drax and Kraglin to make it through one hour of using Peter like a malleable manikin without fighting, and Yondu’ll stop treating Drax like he shot his puppy, and fussing over Kraglin like a broody hen. Then Kraglin can stop milking it for all he’s worth, and Drax can stop making that hurt little expression that plucks an expert arpeggio up and down Peter’s heartstrings, and things can go back to normal. As normal as things get on their ships, anyway. “Y’know what?” he says to Rocket. “You’re not actually half-bad at this Agony Aunt thing.”

Drax ceases moping long enough to misunderstand the situation. “Quill? Why is your aunt in agony? Does she require medical assistance?”

While Peter’s busy explaining – and struggling; he may have to whip out the flip-chart and diagrams, which he stores in a nearby supply closet for times like these – and Kraglin’s occupied with convincing Yondu that yes, he really is okay, and no, he’s not gonna keel over if Yondu lets him go for two seconds without holding his hand, Rocket drops a dark paw over his eyes, rolls, and resolutely turns his back. “Idiots,” he tells Groot.

“I am Groot,” Groot agrees.

 

* * *

 

The pants-palaver goes something like this.

Peter stands blushing in the center of the cabin, hemming into his fist and wondering when he started noticing the intricate details, like how Drax’s chest muscles crinkle a little where they swoop in to his sternum, and how his tattoos glisten as if the scars are still raw when you see them under the dormitory lights. Yondu sits crosslegged besides Kraglin. Kraglin provides a thoroughly unnecessary voice-over, and struggles not to laugh.

“O-okay, now as we can see, the, the belt slips from the loops _like_ so…”

Drax grunts and hurries to demonstrate, standing behind Peter and unpicking the clasp with his nails so his blocky fingers don’t obstruct the view. Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He listens to the suck and whoosh of the oxy-generator in the corner as if it’s a meditation mantra.

Drax might as well be oiling himself up and sliding on in. Not that Peter’s into bottoming. Truth be told, his fantasies more often put Drax in the receiving position. That thick body spread-eagled and vulnerable, flowering to the press of Peter’s fingers and tongue… It’s a miracle he hasn’t started to salivate. But years of forced voyeurism on his captain and mate – who were noisy enough that their moans percolated cushions-over-the-head, earbuds, and even the noise cancellation headsets the quartermaster kept in his hold for use during spacestorms – has taught Peter that catching can be just as pleasurable as pitching. And while Peter doesn’t fancy testing that hypothesis any time soon, a small competitive part insists that if Yondu can get satisfaction out of riding dick, so can he.

…Although right now, putting any thought of sexual activity in alignment with his ex-captain is impossible. The kid’s sitting there, looking oddly serious as if he’s studying for an exam. His big innocent eyes absorb it all. And damn, Peter’s got to get a hold of himself. Otherwise he’ll pop a boner, and Kraglin’ll laugh until he pukes, and Drax’ll probably try to give the poor brat The Talk.

Maybe he’ll use Peter for show-and-tell then, too.

Peter grips Drax’s wrists. It’s not hard enough to restrain him – he doesn’t have the strength for that. But it means he gets to feel the tendons tighten, sliding under muscle and oddly smooth skin as Drax teases his belt free.

“Now,” says Kraglin around his cackles. “For the fly.” If Yondu’s disturbed by his Disney-villain impression – honestly, with the amount Kraglin’s been laughing this past hour, Peter expects him to pull out a torch and use it for under-lighting like the chief storyteller at a Halloween jamboree – he doesn’t show it. He nods, as if he understood a word of what Kraglin said, and puckers blue brows in concentration.

Peter fixes his gaze on him as Drax pops the button through the hole. It’s dawning that this is entirely unnecessary. If it were so vital that Yondu learn how to wear pants, Peter could demonstrate on his lonesome, no exterior assistance required. He’s been dressing himself since mom got too sick to help, thank you very much. He can handle it.

But, he thinks as his overtensed back brushes Drax’s chest, perhaps this isn’t so bad. Perhaps this isn’t so bad _at all_.

He feels each minute shift in Drax’s musculature as he works the fly down. Although the movements are tiny, their echoes travel through Drax’s trunk like ripples in a pond. It’s a holistic process. Tendon tugs bone and ligament tugs muscle. Drax resettles himself in response to the delicate motions of his fingers as if his body is a biotic Rube Goldberg machine, every action resulting in a panoply of infinitesimal shifts. He has to be careful. What with his enhanced strength, there’s a chance he’ll tear the zipper entirely. He grunts, hooking his chin on Peter’s shoulder so he can get a better view of the proceedings.

Warm air whuffs his ear. Peter squeaks.

“Like that,” Kraglin continues. His temper’s been banished in favor of schadenfreude. “And then ya just tug down – like _so_ …” A breeze about his thighs informs Peter that Drax has demonstrated. Thank the stars he did laundry yesterday. For once, his boxers are actually clean. Not that Drax isn’t aware of Peter’s less-than-stellar relationship with hygiene, having lived with him for three months – but it’s nice to feel like he’s made an effort. Even if this ridiculous game’s for Yondu’s benefit, rather than Drax’s own.

…Or not. Is it just him, or is Drax's chest impersonating an oven? Peter doesn’t know what color Destroyers turn when they blush, but he wants to find out. He peels his hand from Drax’s wrist, skin tacking with clammy sweat. His pants sag around his knees. They’ve caught on his shinguards, and Peter stoops to hoist them back to regular levels without thinking.

The motion crushes one private part of his anatomy into Drax’s corresponding piece. Peter only realizes this when it’s far, far too late.

“Uh,” he says.

Drax is a lump of marble, statue-still and silent, green-grey veined with red tattoos. Blunt ended fingers grasp Peter’s hips, steadying him when his knees make to give out and deposit him face-first on the floor: a downwards-dog without the arms. Drax exhales. Peter feels it more than he hears it, although the rumble from Drax’s settling diaphragm could’ve been mistaken for a passing stampede.

He feels _everything._

“Flark,” is all he can think to say, as Kraglin’s guffaws start to ebb.

Next thing he knows, Yondu’s pulling quizzically on Kraglin’s sleeve. He points at the pair of men frozen in a modest _karma sutra_ tableau in the middle of the room. Peter hastily straightens, tugging his belt and the attached leather trouserlegs with him. Neither he nor Kraglin can meet the kid’s curious eyes, so Drax takes it upon himself to explain, stepping briskly out of Peter’s personal space.

“I will tell you when you are older. For now, it is your turn to try on the pants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soooo sleeeeeeeepy**
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> **Leave me a comment to brighten my morning tomorrow? :D**
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> ****


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu draws, Gamora is a talking clock, and Rocket wants a job.**

Gamora has assigned herself talking clock duty. She sticks her head around the door, hair falling from one shoulder in a glossy waterfall.

Peter, as usual, stares. He can’t help it; it’s not _his_ fault Gamora’s a frutarking goddess. But instead of one flat glare he receives two; Drax looks from her to him, reaches some ridiculous conclusion, huffs, and returns his attention to where it’s been for the past five minutes – helping Yondu color his pictures.

The boy, now boasting a loose-fit pair of pants, has scribbled across every surface on board the _Milano_ that’s designed to be drawn on, and several that aren’t. Every so often, Drax picks a wrong hue from the selection of ink-sticks, and Yondu scowls and tosses a crayon at his head. But he isn’t flinching away from Drax or trying to put himself between him and Kraglin. And Drax lets the crayons clatter off his bald scalp with doe-eyed patience, a tiny smile cresting his lips – so really, everything’s okay in the galaxy.

Peter doesn’t know how long the ink-sticks have been languishing in that storeroom, or why they were there in the first place. They’ve probably been here since _he_ was a kid. After all, this ship was yet another of Yondu’s hand-me-downs – along with Peter’s first adult-sized jacket and coat, which he’d grown out of in under a year, much to Yondu’s annoyance.

But Yondu perked right up when Peter handed them over. He made grabby-hands and seemed to know which way up to hold the sticks, so the ink gathered around the splatter-free kid-friendly nibs rather than gunking up the refill mechanism. Peter assumes Centaurians have an equivalent. Yondu’s amazed when color comes out though. Watching him dabble rainbow splotches over his hands, the old piece of scrap hull they’ve given him to doodle on, the floor, his pants, and the porthole windows, gasping whenever he clicks the button and the shade lightens and darkens according to the concentration of the ink, causes a bubble of pure happiness to rise in Peter’s chest. Within the quarter hour Yondu’s scritching away like a skilled artist, tongue peeping from the corner of his mouth, squatted over his canvas as he draws stick figure after stick figure, hut after hut, tree after tree.

Peter hasn’t looked at his creations yet, only glimpsed them out the corner of his eye. There’ll be time to study them later, and try to piece together a few more shreds of the boy’s elusive past.

Or maybe not. Because on cue, Gamora opens her mouth. “Fifteen minutes until the device activates. Best say goodbye.”

“Right.” Peter’s almost disappointed. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? He’s well aware that every passing day brings the Guardians’ iteration of Yondu closer to the one they’d all come to know – the grinning blue a-hole who’d snatched some Terran brat for the shits and giggles, and most likely wants the lot of them dead. He can’t be blamed for wanting to cling onto these finite moments, where Yondu is dependent on Peter’s mercy rather than the other way around.

As he is now, Yondu hugs Peter and smiles at him without any ulterior motive. He holds his hand and walks diligently besides him, hopping about as he tries to pounce on Peter’s shadow, gasping and pointing at every new thing. After their Big Day Out reached its climax in the restaurant, with Drax using Kraglin’s gangly throat as a squeeze-box, Yondu had foregone taking his usual seat on the big guy once they reached the shuttle, and had thrown himself onto Peter’s lap instead. He’d done so with the simple, unthinking ease of a child: never requiring a reason to show his affection.

Now, as Drax repairs that splintered bond, Peter watches the pair of them and prays that the oncoming days won’t wear too heavily on his largest teammate. For Peter, this is kinda like burrowing beneath the surface of the proud Ravager Admiral, snatching glances of an idyllic, if primitive society, now long gone. For Drax though, it must be like watching something you care about slip through your fingers.

He’s never gonna hold baby Yondu again. And sure, all parents have to come to terms with that eventually – but they have years to accept it. Drax has fifty days.

It’s a cruel yet universal truth of linear chronology that time only moves in one direction. This blip is already endangering the multiverse. But right then, watching Drax clutch the color-stick so carefully, afraid to press it too hard against the pad in case it snaps, and filling Yondu’s messy lines with pedantic attention to detail, Peter would do anything to make this last longer.

“Fourteen minutes,” says Gamora. Peter groans and pushes to his feet.

“Yeah, yeah. Hey Drax – bring the brat.”

Drax’s grip on the pen tightens. Plastic creaks, and a shiny dollop of ink squeezes from the nib, messing Yondu’s line. “A little longer,” he says as Yondu pouts and elbows him in reproach. He doesn’t look at Peter as he shuffles to one side, allowing the tiny Centaurian to assume his place and messily smear ink in an effort to salvage whatever childish scrawl lays underneath. It’s not voiced as a plea, but Peter hears it for what it is. He looks beseechingly at Gamora. Who rolls her eyes, but retreats from the doorway with something approaching a smile.

“I’ll come tell you when there’s five minutes left.”

 

* * *

 

Five minutes until four-year-old Yondu is returned to his past. Five minutes before the next tiring day begins.

Drax leads the boy towards the ship’s central hub. Whether or not Yondu picks up on his gloominess, he doesn’t let it distort his own sunny temperament. If anything, he acts even more chipper, as if he’s trying to cheer Drax up with exuberance alone. He bounces on his toes, light and agile as a baby goat, running circles around Drax as Drax walks the solemn green mile into the communal room, where the artifact waits on a table.

Peter stays behind. He doesn’t need to watch. What he does need is a damn archaeologist’s degree, to help him make sense of Yondu’s painting.

There’s… Okay, there’s blue. There’s a lot of blue. The ink pen lays discarded, sticky fingerprints smeared over its casing. Thank the stars for safety nibs, or else Peter’d be facing a nice big puddle on his flooring. Or a small puddle, as the case may be. Peter picks it up, pulling a face at the gummy coating. He tilts it this way and that, light splitting through the blue-stained plastic. It’s still warm from Yondu’s hand. It’s also nearly empty.

Looking at his artwork, Peter sees why. The forests are blue. The people are blue. Even most of the animals are blue – although Peter’s ability to categorize one from the other might be sabotaged by Yondu’s drawing abilities, which are on par with those of any other four-year-old. He squints at a blob for a whole thirty seconds, before deciding it’s either a wounded dog or a three-legged shrub.

So what’s the big deal? Is Yondu colorblind? It would explain why he makes all his men dress in dark red, if that’s the only shade he can differentiate. But Peter doesn’t think that’s the answer. After all, Yondu could discern between the cockpit ejection button and the fire-all button, which were both of the same dimensions and whose positioning altered depending on the design of your M-ship. Maybe Alpha Centauri-IV really is that blue? (Or was. Peter’s unsure of the correct tense. Sure, the Centaurians might’ve been wiped out, but who’s to say that the planet isn’t still there: drifting around its lonely sun, bereft of all but base plantlife?)

Peter runs his fingertips over a crude sketch, selecting the one that looks to be driest so he doesn’t get any more ink on his hands. It depicts two blue figures standing in front of a hut that looks bigger and less ramshackle than those surrounding it, even in a four-year-old’s tenuous representation. Their crests stand to at least half their height. Their legs also come up to their armpits, so Peter isn’t confident in Yondu’s sense of proportion. Nevertheless, he’s impressed. Having never met a non-mutilated adult Centaurian, he doesn’t know how big their dorsal fins get. Yondu certainly hadn’t enlightened him. As ever, when asked about his past life, the captain had either clammed up with a glare or diverted Peter with insults until Peter got mad enough to yell back and the uncomfortable conversation metamorphosed into a screaming match.

But young Yondu has nothing to hide. His illustration of his life is unthinking and innocent, and he’s sharing it with the Guardians in an attempt at communication. Peter wonders, not for the first time, if he ought to feel guilty about exploiting the kid for information on his one-time captain. But Rocket saunters in with Groot on his heels before Peter can reach the end of his thought process.

“Hey buddy,” he says, gathering the pens into a stack as if he’d been caught in the process of tidying. “Buddies.” Groot accepts the late acknowledgment gracefully, swarming Rocket’s pantleg so he can perch on his shoulder and observe Peter at eye-level. “What’re you guys up to?”

“Not much,” says Rocket. His arms are crossed, which is never a good sign. Defensiveness and Rocket go together like pickle on cheese, as Peter’s grandpa might’ve said. But as a rule, the further through a conversation Rocket gets, the more defensive he becomes. If he’s starting one with a chip on his shoulder, Peter can only imagine how it might end up. He just prays Rocket isn’t in a scratching mood.

Cutting to the chase, Peter spins around on his ass – conveniently obstructing Rocket’s view of Yondu’s drawings. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want to hear his teammate’s mocking appraisal of them. Not today.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yeah.” Rocket’s posture winds tighter. “I’m flarkin’ bored Petey, that’s what. I’m bored and I’m restless, and if lil’ blue back there ain’t gonna fork out for himself, we’re gonna need to make some dough. I think it’s time we took a job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please comment!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Peter makes an excellent mattress, and Drax a tolerable pillow**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **My maths is so bad... Tell me if the ages/day counts are wrong? D:**

Peter tries to dissuade him.

“It’s too dangerous. It’s stupid! What are Yondu and Groot supposed to do; just wait around?”

Rocket answers the first clause with a laugh, the second with a sneer, and the third with a raucous snort. “Ain’t like they’re gonna be throwin’ any house parties, is it?”

“Yeah, but we can’t just… leave them alone. And that means one of us has to babysit.”

“So? We can handle this shit. Heck, make Kraglin do it. He ain’t a Guardian, so it shouldn’t matter if he stays behind.”

Peter, recalling the way Drax gouged a circlet of amethyst bruises around Kraglin’s neck, winces. “Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Kraglin’s a good guy. Not on the surface, obviously – but under that mantle of bad breath and sadism and gaunt bony angles, there’s a man who’s sharp, capable (in all fields but those that involve reading), and doggedly loyal. Drax, while appeased by Peter’s explanation of Yondu’s kiss, still mistrusts him alone around the boy. Which is all kinds of stupid, but then again, new parents aren’t known for being the most rational. Peter reminds himself that in Drax’s eyes, Yondu’s only been _his_ for five days – almost six now. Of course he’s overprotective.

“That won’t work,” he says. Holds up a finger before Rocket can launch into his next argument. “Look. Find me a job that’s low risk, nearby, and involving strictly no Ravagers, and we can go. Deal?”

Rocket thinks for a moment, jaw working without sound. Then settles back on his paws, bristling fur smoothing calculatedly. “Sure. Easy job, no redcoats. No problem.” Peter doesn’t like his expression. That’s the sort of look that Rocket gets when he tries to convince them that he’s buying parts to replace those he looted from the door relays, not to build another, bigger bomb. But he knows better than to voice his suspicions. Last thing he wants is to make Rocket _more_ paranoid.

“Okay then,” he says, just to have the final word. Rocket snorts and sticks a middle finger up at him. Groot twists on his shoulder to wave bye-bye, blithely oblivious of the tension. Peter waggles his hand in return. “Catch ya later.”

The door slides shut. Peter’s alone.

That lasts for all of five seconds – just long enough for him to return to squinting at the drawing of the Centaurian homemakers. Then Yondu barrels in. First thing he does is tacklehug Peter. As Peter’s already seated, he can’t tense up and counteract the surprisingly heavy weight of a five-year-old crashing into his midriff. He falls backwards, flailing – and scrapes his sleeve over the painting. Ink smears. Peter’s left with a blue sleeve and a smudged hull-plate. Yondu blinks at it, uncomprehending for a moment. Then realization dawns. Along with further confusion. Peter sees the emotions march across his face – it’s certainly close enough, given that Yondu’s landed on top of him and seems comfortable using Peter as his personal sofa.

He’s recognized his old picture. A year old, to be precise, in his mind. And now he’s wondering why it hasn’t dried. Perhaps he’s also wondering why they don’t seem to have aged – although if he’s anything like Peter was at five, it’s hard enough telling adults from teenagers, let alone discerning that Peter looks exactly as he did when Yondu last left him.

As the brain prefers to distort facts in order to make sense of a situation, Yondu may well be supposing that the Guardians were stupid enough to give a child never-drying paint, and that Peter only has one set of clothes. Peter doesn’t have the language to correct these assumptions. Neither does he care to try. He just tucks paint-slathered arms over the warm little body, cradling Yondu’s head to his chest as he’d done when the boy was a babe.

“Hello again, lil’ guy,” he whispers, scritching the wrinkle where Yondu’s hairless skull joins to the neck. Yondu wriggles happily and tics his leg. He’s still puppyish, still demonstrative, still entirely comfortable with physical affection. He’s also, to Peter’s surprise, back in his loincloth.

Drax enters next, followed by a sloping Kraglin. Gamora lurks at the back, far enough that she can pretend to be sharpening her knives but close enough to eavesdrop. Drax holds the culprit pants aloft. “These stayed,” he says simply. “The loincloth went, although we had folded it in your drawer.”

“Why’s it gotta stay in my drawer?” Peter shakes his head. Not the time. “So. Uh, I guess this means we can’t give him anything to take back.”

Rocket twiddles the cube between dexterous paws. He ceases his frustrated champing to spit: “In layman’s terms, ya ain’t wrong. This thing retains the biometric and compositional make up of Blue in his home time, then transports him here, along with anything non-biotic he’s touching that ain’t the ground or a larger structure. Then extracts the exact same material from our timeline and deposits it back where it belongs, when it belongs.”

Peter shuffles Yondu onto his lap, electing to sit rather than lay flat out – and ignoring the kid’s grumpy whine. Not that he _minds_ being a mattress, but when he’s in front of his team-plus-Kraglin, all of whom are standing, it is a little demeaning. “That sounds complex.”

“It is,” is the only answer Rocket provides.

Groot, placed on the table besides Rocket, knows better than to disturb his friend’s fiddling. But he does crawl a little closer, beady black eyes fixed on the box’s sides. Its facets are so smooth and its corners so cleanly filed that it looks like a computer simulation, a Princess-cut of dull titanium. Not a single scuff mars its surface. No irregularities at all, in fact – besides that subtle hint of a pressure pad and the unrelenting wink of an orange activation light. “I am Groot?”

“I dunno.”

Peter’s distracted by Yondu’s yawn. Little guy ought to be getting his beauty sleep. He pokes him in the nose, making him giggle, addressing Rocket as an afterthought. “What did Groot say?”

Rocket shrugs, jittery and tense. He picks at the smooth casing like an ape prying at a termite mound, claws skidding and slipping from the shell. “Jus’ asking where the original Yondu went. Y’know, the one who evaporated? My guess is, ol’ ugly got vaporized and sucked into here, to be stored until this dumb interrogation-process or whatever is complete. Then he’ll be able to exist in this timestream without temptin’ a paradox. So out he pops. And goes back to chasin’ us around the galaxy, of course, which is why we oughta have killed him when we had the chance – “

That’s… a good question. And a disturbing answer. Peter isn’t the only one to think so. Luckily, Drax grabs Kraglin before he can throttle Rocket. “I believe that was what Quill calls a ‘joke’,” he says, enunciating the word so carefully that Peter blurts out a laugh.

Kraglin growls in the back of his throat. “Yeah, It’d better have been.”

Yondu makes a distressed noise. His crest is glowing again, his body throbbing with an undefinable energy. Peter can’t see it. Nor can he really _feel_ it. It’s more as if he’s sitting in close proximity to a radioactive source. Unlike Gamora, he doesn’t have an internal Geiger counter. But his skin’s prickling, every hair crackling to attention like Yondu’s about to be at the epicenter of a lightning strike. Kraglin breaks from Drax’s grip, demeanor mutating to worry.

“Captain? What’s wrong?”

Yondu’s crest hums again. Peter’s almost afraid to touch it, in case the skin melts off his hands. He’s seen what happens to those who grab the arrow when it’s activated. They’re lucky to walk away with their fingers attached – if they walk away at all.

But Yondu’s smile returns as the brewing argument ceases. He waves at Kraglin, much like his one-year-old self from the cockpit of the _Milano,_ demanding that Kraglin give him his welcoming hug.

Peter, cocking his head at the boy on his lap, turns his perplexed face to the Ravager mate. “What was all that about?”

Gamora shrugs. “I have no idea. But perhaps you should let him up?”

Peter lets his arm slip from around Yondu’s slim waist. The boy’s instantly up, jogging to Kraglin and all but flinging himself into a one-sided embrace, while Kraglin stands stiff and tall and looks very much like he’d like to be elsewhere. Yondu’s lucky he doesn’t gouge his eye on the man’s hipbone. He nuzzles his cheek against Kraglin’s belly, shifting the worn leather over skin. His crest glows so brightly that Peter can see the internal bones, which float ghost-like in their translucent red casing. He ignores Kraglin’s scowl and the sulky jut of his lower lip. He ignores the way his hands shove at his shoulders, a futile attempt at prying him away. He even ignores the harsh mutter of “sentiment”.

Almost as if he sees through the guff. Because, Peter realizes, watching with calculation in his eyes, Kraglin’s sneer is tempered with a faint upwards twitch, the half-smile dimpling the cheek that he keeps turned away from the Guardians. While he pushes at Yondu, it’s never with any real force. If he truly wanted the kid off him, he’d have lashed out far more violently by now.

Peter can tell all this because he knows Kraglin. The other Guardians are oblivious – Drax watches with keen diligence, the creases on his forehead compounding one atop the other as their hug stretches on and on.

But how does Yondu know? He’s only had five-and-a-bit days in their company, and three of them he spent as a squalling infant or a ditzy toddler. Hell, Kraglin had only arrived halfway through! There’s no way his memory of the man is perfect, not after the year’s interim between their meetings. So how is he reading him as well as Peter, with his thirty-odd years of experience?

Peter strokes the hairs on his upper lip. He doesn’t believe in _fate._ Just as he doesn’t believe in _love at first sight,_ or _soulmates,_ or _the One._ All that mushy _made-to-be-together_ shtick’s for high-society Xandarian girls, who read their horoscopes as they sip liquidized crystal from their breakfast goblets. It has no place in a Guardian’s life – even less of one in a Ravager’s.

So what then? What’s he missing? What’s the link between fin and arrow and… whatever odd empathy Yondu’s currently displaying? Does it only resonate with Kraglin? What are its rules and limitations?

Peter’s thinking like Rocket, as if every foible is a problem that needs to be solved. He forces himself to assess the situation from his own perspective: the viewpoint of the man raised by Ravagers, who’s closer to Yondu than any other. The blue jerkass never mentioned that his crest gave him funky powers – beyond the obvious whistle-related ones. Nor did he ever showcase the abilities Yondu’s broadcasting now, so brazenly that it’s almost naïve. In fact, if there was one thing Yondu was lacking, Peter’s money would be on empathy.

There’s a cold nugget calcifying in Peter’s chest. It hardens with each passing moment, as Kraglin gives up his pretense at standoffishness and cradles Yondu to him for the duration of an inhalation and exhalation, then eases him firmly away. Its chill diffuses outwards, passage spurred on by the rosy bioluminescence that ebbs from Yondu’s crest, leaving it matt-red and dull once more. That Mohawk isn’t just an inbuilt weapons-aiming system. It’s more. Peter hasn’t quite put his finger on what yet, but he doesn’t like the insinuation that its some kind of sensory organ – one Yondu will lose, at that.

Is it like being blinded, he wants to ask? Did it hurt?

But those questions are for the Ravager Admiral of the future, not the child of the past. Yondu meanders to Drax and plonks his head on his thigh, the both of them still standing. He yawns, wide and mannerless, showing how his teeth have sharpened in his absence. What do Centaurians do; chew on rocks? Peter can’t ask that either. He’d only be met with a confused stare and a spiel of nonsensical clicks. Possibly a ‘flark’.

Drax cups the back of Yondu’s head in that way he likes, broad fingers folding securely over fragile bone. It must be like snuggling into a callous-rough pillow, warm from Drax’s bodyheat and soothing as a lullaby. If Yondu weren’t hogging the prime position, Peter might try it too.

He wonders if he could convince Drax to hold him that carefully. Maybe if he plead insomnia? They’d start off slow. They’d be face to face in one bunk. If this was actuality, they’d also be cramped for space, given their size. The bulk of their singular bodies could make a mattress groan. Make them plural and you had a recipe for crushed springs. But this is a fantasy, and as such Peter can bypass any and all of those nitty-gritty details.

Drax would hold Peter like he was something precious and breakable. Then he would draw him closer, enfolding him in beefy arms that blocked out the world. Maybe he’d try to nuzzle his curly ginger crown. But Peter would stop him. He’d would stroke those grey-green olive lips, follow the curve of Drax’s chin to his ears, and hold him steady as he discovered whether that stern mouth would soften beneath a relentless barrage of kisses. He’d suck his throat. Flutter his tongue mockingly over Drax’s racing pulsepoint. Squirm between wide-splayed thighs and make the to-be Titan-killer his…

“I am Groot,” whispers Groot, tugging on Rocket’s arm fur. Rocket’s whiskery snout splits into a grin.

“Yeah. He _is_ staring.”

Peter’s mouth snaps shut. He’s only grateful that he has yet to drool. “C’mon,” he growls, turning to the dorm’s rust-crusted door. “It’s naptime for blue brats and tiny trees. Terrans too, I think.” Then, cutting across Gamora’s recitation of the astrodate and time down to the nanosecond: “Y’know what? We’ve all had a busy day. Let’s turn in early. We’ll search for jobs in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is like, 99% introspection omg. Sorry... Next one will have more Stuff Happening.**
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> **Leave me comments; y'know I love 'em.**
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> ****


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Rocket is tackled, Peter is a sugardaddy, and Yondu (gasp) apologizes.**

M-ship sleeping regulations are crisp, clear, and always adhered to. The Guardians have adopted the Ravagers’ basic principles, which are pinned to the rec room wall by a knife – with a few addendums.

Rule 1 (messy and fast, letters tumbling into each other and lines ignored): _No women in ur bed when the dorm has other ppl in it_

Rule 1.5 (faster still): _No men either_

Rule 1.75 (fastest of all, crammed into the remaining space and dotted with ink blobs from where a pen had been squeezed so hard its nib snapped): _Dammit Quill, no other genders! Don’t you think I don’t know ur looking for loopholes boy!! We only needed 2 damn rules before u came along u ungrateful lil shit_

Rule 2: _Shut the damn door quietly if you gotta piss in the night_

Rule 2.5 (in a neater scrawl): _If you must urinate, make sure you’ve found the toilet and not the wardrobe. As slamming the door is the only way to tell the difference in the dark, Rule 2 is hereby declared redundant._

Rule 2.75 (letters are small, blockish, and rounded, with the occasional smudge from botched rubbing out, as if the writer was transcribing from another’s voice): _Rule 2 is not redundant. If you wake him up, captain will whistle. As he’ll also whistle if you piss on his clothes, it’s in your best interest to hold it._

Rule 3 (return to the first style): _If u snore/scream/cry in the night, don’t be surprised if u wake up 2 find a sock in ur mouth_

Rule 3.5 (In the same curled lettering as 2.5): _A sock in the mouth is a gag. A sock in the mouth and a finger up each nostril is a murder attempt. Signed, Doc Mijo (who is tired of doing autopsies on asphyxiated crewmates)._

Rule 4 (a different hand again): _No signing rules._

Rule 5 (matches the writing in 2.75): _Clean up after yourself, cause no one else’ll do it for you. Unless they’ve been given scrub detention detail, in which case they’ll put everything away in the wrong place out of spite._

Rule 6 (in Gamora’s precise print): _Respect the sanctity of your bedspace, and others shall respect the sanctity of yours._

Rule 6.5 (spikey capitals, crushed between the lines above and below): _SHE’S TALKING TO U ROCKET I KNOW U LEFT THAT SPARKPLUG ON MY PILLOW_

Rule 7 (very small and difficult to read, letters formed clumsily as if the pen had been too large for the hands that held it): _Check your beds for sparkplugs before you jump on them then, idiots_

Nowhere are there any rules about whose bed should harbor guests.

“He could share Groot’s?” Gamora suggests. She still makes a point of not looking at Yondu – she’s studying the opposite row of bunks in grim contemplation. But now Peter understands why, he doesn’t begrudge her it. She’s helping out as much as she can. But although her input’s appreciated, it doesn’t solve anything. He shakes his head.

“Groot’s too small. We don’t want Yondu rolling and squishing him.”

“I am Groot!”

Rocket pokes the miniature head, careful not to scratch. “Sure you’re tough, lil’ guy. But Quill’s got a point. I say blue sleeps on the floor. Or in Kraggles’s ship –“

“Definitely not,” says Drax. Kraglin scoffs under his breath. Peter’s glad, if only because it absolves Peter of doing the same. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the fervor with which Drax protects Yondu; just that sometimes he can be a little… overzealous.

Kraglin certainly thinks so. “Enough of this,” he says. “Y’know I ain’t into kids, right?”

Drax’s glower could curdle blood. Possibly engine fuel, industrial-grade acid, and plasma too. “I do not trust that you won’t attempt to decouple while we sleep. You’re only here for your captain, after all.”

Kraglin puffs up. “Yeah, sounds mighty tempting! Specially if I gotta keep dealin’ with this shit –“

And here we go again. Peter spots the flash of Yondu’s crest, from where the kid’s sleepily leaning on Drax’s leg. He intervenes before he can read the tension in the room, or whatever else that mysterious ridged fin lets him do. “Guys, guys. Let’s compromise. Groot sleeps in Rocket’s bed, and Yondu gets Groot’s.”

It’s Rocket’s turn to posture. “Oh yeah? Why should Groot give up his space for _him?_ ”

“I am Groot, I am Groot –“

“I know ya don’t mind, but you oughta!”

“Okay then.” Peter treats him to a placid blink. “Yondu shares your bed then. It’s your choice.”

After that, matters are settled swiftly. While Rocket still grumbles under his breath about the team’s neglect of his best friend, he’d rather suffer his company than Yondu’s – who still sees him as a conveniently hug-sized toy. Only now he’s older, he doesn’t just latch onto an unamused Rocket when he wants a plush. A glimmer of the mocking sadism that Peter knows is creeping into the boy’s personality, and he’s begun to pester Rocket for the sheer joy of making him squawk.

Like now, for instance.

Yondu, prowling over under the pretence of seeing Peter, pauses midway across the floor. His eyes flick right. Peter guesses what he’s about to do a moment before it happens, but he doesn’t have time to shout “don’t you flarking dare!”

Yondu pounces.

He’s a novice hunter. He lingers too long, calculating the distance between him and his target, and projects the direction he’ll be springing in with his eyes. It’s only Rocket’s constant drone of complaints that stops him from noticing what Yondu’s planning. They cut off with a squeak when Yondu dives him to the floor.

He giggles the whole while. Rocket doesn’t.

“Flarkin’ stars! Get the flark offa me before I make ya –“

Groot, having tumbled off Rocket’s shoulder, bowls head-over-heels and comes to a rest against Gamora’s boot. She nudges him upright with her toe. And, for the first time, addresses Yondu directly. “Child, stop this.”

Yondu freezes, startled by the unfamiliar voice. He’s got Rocket wrapped in his arms and legs, clinging to him like a snake. Peter’s the only one to have moved to stop him. Kraglin’s snickering, of course, and Drax is watching the tussle with a disturbingly doe-eyed look that says ‘boys will be boys’.

…Peter’s gonna have to talk to him about that. He knows Drax doesn’t have nearly as long in young-Yondu’s company as he would like, but that doesn’t mean they can let the brat run rampant. They’ll have that discussion later. Peter’s not looking forwards to it. It will either result in Drax pouting, which facilitates his wrapping of Peter around his little finger (not literally, Peter feels the need to stress), or Drax scowling, which Peter dreads facing on the best of days. Not that Drax would hurt him. It’s more that Peter’s heart makes funny little spasms whenever Drax is within a foot of him, which isn’t optimum when you’re trying to criticize someone’s parenting technique.

Sighing to himself, Peter makes the most of Yondu’s distraction and pries him away from the squirming bundle of fur. “Sorry,” he offers Rocket, wholly inadequately, while Yondu grins and points at Gamora as if to say ‘look! I made a friend!’

“Iq gaq’qa! Iq gaq’qa!”

“Yes,” says Peter, flicking the nearest blue ear. “She spoke to you. Congratulations. Now weren’t you tired just a minute ago? Please, let’s go to sleep.”

Gamora’s flush darkens her face from olive to blackforest. The silver cybernetics highlight her delicate bone structure, marking the ridges of cheek and browbones. She relocates her gaze to her boots, kneeling to scoop up Groot so he won’t risk being trampled. Rocket meanwhile staggers to his hind paws, glaring daggers, javelins, and missiles at his assailant.

“I told ya to keep him away from me!” he hisses at Peter. His fur’s standing on end, like a puffer fish that’s been poked. Peter’d be tempted to laugh under any other circumstance.

“Sorry,” he says again, in the vain hope it’ll have more meaning with repetition. “He won’t do that again. Will you, Yondu?” Uncomprehending of his words he might be, but Yondu’s certainly not stupid. The saccharine smile he turns on Peter confirms that he’s aware of what he’s just done, but will blag and simper his way to forgiveness before he confesses. Peter, scowling, flicks his other ear. “Oh no you don’t. You’re a manipulative shitbag as an adult – but I’m not standing for it as a kid. Now…” He pulls the boy to his feet, forcing him to stand on his own when he tries to clutch Peter’s thigh guard like he did when he was younger. Then points to Rocket. “Apologize.”

Yondu blinks at him. How does he make his eyes so limpid? This man – this _man-to-be_ – will have entire civilizations forking over their treasures to escape his wrath. He’s simply not allowed to be cute.

Peter steels himself. Crosses his arms. “Apologize. Now.”

Yondu dithers. He draws circles on the floor panels with his bare toes. (They’re only just getting to grips with pants; Peter hasn’t dared suggest socks yet.) He looks like he’s considering it. Peter tips the balance when he leans forwards, hands shifting to his hips, until his face hovers an inch from Yondu’s.

“Apologize,” he growls.

Yondu sniffs and makes his lower lip tremble. When Peter fails to be swayed, he huffs, turns sharply on his heel – plucking at the loose pant legs, still accustoming to the sensation – and inclines his head to Rocket in a half-bow. The crest wobbles, internal bones still soft with youth, not yet sturdy enough to hold it stiff.

“Gqkza kqxcha ka,” comes the sulky mumble. Peter pats him on the head.

“Good boy.” He digs into his pocket, wondering if he still has them. Grunts ‘jackpot’ when he closes on the half-shredded package. They’re gummy sweets from a stall on Knowhere. The texture’s all wrong – more like foam shrimp than anything – but they’re the closest the Andromeda Galaxy comes to liquorice. He pops one free and hands it over, presented between pinched finger and thumb with a flourish. “There. That’s what good boys get.”

“Uh, I’m the one who’s been good here. Ya oughta be congratulatin’ me for not clawin’ the brat’s eyes out –“

Peter sighs and offers Rocket the second sweet. His supply’s already dwindling. Won’t be long before he has to make an excuse to visit the Collector again. When he notices Drax and Gamora staring – Rocket’s sharing his with Groot, one lick each – Peter hunches protectively over his pocket. “No, I didn’t bring enough to share. Buy your own!”

But Drax only nods to himself, stroking his chin. “Positive reinforcement,” he says, as Yondu decides the sweet isn’t a threat to him, ceases pawing it over – and making his fingers ever-stickier into the bargain – and pops it in his mouth. “I approve.”

Half of Peter wants to snap ‘I didn’t do it for your approval’. But the other half’s too busy melting. Peter smiles giddily, and if he notices Yondu sticking his black-stained tongue out at Rocket the moment his back’s turned, he pretends not to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is making my teeth ache, in the best possible way. I'm gonna have to write something filthy soon, just to get the sweetness out my mouth.**
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> **How're you enjoying this fic so far? There will be more plot, rather than just... 'guardians-and-little!yondu shenanigans', but it won't come into play for a while yet.**
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	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the Guardians sleep (with the exception of Peter), Peter deals with _emotions_ , and Yondu emulates a gecko.**

The night is set to be a long one. That’s Yondu’s fault. He bounces about like any child who’s never had the privilege of a spring-laden mattress, rolling from side to side and generally making himself a nuisance. But Peter lays awake for a different reason.

The others are still at long last. They’re in the doldrums of the night cycle, lost in the hours between midnight and three am where time stretches and compresses with the Guardians' snores, and slumber lurks over a perpetual horizon for any who have yet to fall into it, forever an inch out of reach. Peter watches the syrupy shift of plasma in the dorm lamps, which remain a notch above deactivated so no one’ll walk into a doorjamb if they need to piss in the night. And he thinks.

About the kid in Groot’s bed, and how he’d acquiesced – albeit grudgingly – to Peter’s will, mumbling a sulky ‘sorry’ in his strange guttural language. About Rocket, who had accepted the apology only at Groot’s behest, and looked profoundly disbelieving the whole way. About Gamora, who’d talked to Yondu and not looked like she wanted to spontaneously combust afterwards. And about Drax.

Because, after piling Yondu into his bunk and holding up a hand, palm-out, in the universal gesture for ‘stay’, Drax had swung himself onto the bed beneath Peter’s with his usual quiet grunt. In fact, everything had returned to conventional patterns. Drax peeled off his boots and stripped to his underwear, either shameless or unaware of Peter’s eyes, which traced the flowing grey muscle through the chinks between the bars. His pants had been folded and placed besides Peter’s. His neck had been cracked and his spine stretched out, Drax leaning backwards and arching until his chin nearly brushed the slats cradling Peter’s mattress. And then, before Peter could transplant that image into a near-identical one of Drax writhing beneath him, the Destroyer had mumbled “Goodnight,” resettled on his back, and shut his eyes.

That was that, Peter thought. He’d let himself doze, drifting on a parallel plane, only tenuously tethered to his body. He sunk into the mattress like a canoe in marshland. In fact, he was so relaxed that he didn’t even jump when broad digits, rough from years spent wrapped around the hilt of a knife, stroked his palm.

Peter is flat on his stomach. Stops him snoring, which is good, and it’s all the better for watching the man in the bunk below, which is better. But he’s a big guy, and these pallets are cramped to begin with. Rather than crushing his forearms under his pillow to greet him with pins and needles come morning, he elects to stick one hand out through the bed bars, exposed to the cool night. And now, that same hand is being touched.

Gently. Delicately. As if Drax is tracing blown glass, rather than the love-lines that join Peter’s thumb to his wrist.

Peter exhales. He lets every ounce of residual tension flush from his muscles, purging himself of all cares. The fact that Gamora barely needs to sleep, and can see perfectly well in the dark? Inconsequential. Rocket’s amplified hearing meaning that he’ll have eavesdropped on that rumbly little ‘goodnight’ that’d been intended for Peter and Peter alone? Irrelevant. Right now, Peter’s awareness of his own existence – from the pull of air into his lungs to the throb of his slowing heart – centers around that point of contact: the fingers that map his.

It takes several seconds for the signal to cascade along neural pathways and sleep-sodden nerves. As a result, Peter’s fingers curl a fraction too slow. Drax slips away, leaving only the ghostly tingle of a palm made newly sensitive to the _Milano’s_ constantly circulating air supply. But from his pleased hum, and the way that vast body rolls onto its side, magnificent as a breaching whale, Drax is satisfied.

All is calm. All is still. The creaks of the _Milano_ at rest fade into a white-noise medley: the thrumming engines; the reverberation of the oxy-generator; the whir of Gamora and Rocket’s mechanical parts, which you only notice in dead silence. 

“Goodnight,” Peter mumbles, far too late. The increase in cybernetic clicks and the sharp exhale tell him that Gamora’s rolling her eyes.

 

* * *

 

And so, he can be forgiven for a little insomnia. Peter’s trapped in a quandary between relaxed and on edge. His hand might as well be hovering besides a Van de Graaf generator, static stippling its underside. He balls it into a fist to conserve the memory of Drax’s touch.

Sure, the big guy can nod off after bestowing such an intimate gesture on his bunk-buddy - his quiet snores make the whole bunk stack vibrate. But Peter’s Terran. He is, as Yondu likes – _liked_ – to remind him, soft. Positively _squishy._ Emotions like these don’t make him want to sprawl out and sleep; they make him want to run, jump, punch the air, then curl up and squeal into his pillow.

“Dammit,” he mutters, boring his other hand into his forehead. His vision’s muzzy and tired. The room’s already too dark for him to pick out details, but everything looks blurrier than usual: his body preparing for sleep even as his mind runs rampant. Does Drax know what hand-holding means? Undoubtedly. Metaphors aren’t his specialty, but he’s no stranger to physical affection. So that means… That means that whatever’s been brewing between them is – dare Peter say it – reciprocal. Not just attraction. But something more… potent. More penetrating.

Peter sees his ‘proud womanizer’ status slipping out of his grasp. It’s replaced by despicably cushy, feelgood Hallmark-esque images of him and Drax in matching sweaters, sipping coffee from mugs labelled _Best Partner_ and _Number One Boyfriend._ And, most disturbingly, he doesn’t mind.

“Dammit,” he says again. Gives the pillow a light punch. His fist leaves a dent in the memory foam. If Gamora’s awake, she’s smart enough to pretend otherwise, and Peter can almost convince himself that there’s no one witnessing his little freak-out. Still, it’s best not to tempt embarrassment. Peter decides to deal with this latest moment of sentimental idiocy the way he deals with all others. He reaches into the bedside cubby that’s hollowed into the wall by his head, and he pulls out his Walkman.

 _Fooled Around and Fell in Love_ has never hit quite so close to home.

 

* * *

 

Kraglin stays in his own quarters. They must feel lonely without his captain to warm his bunk, but Drax had been adamant Yondu remain with the Guardians. And for once, Peter had agreed. Not that he thought Kraglin would… do anything he might’ve done, if he woke up to find the adult version plastered to his front under the covers. But Kraglin’s only just starting to lose that awful, hollow-cheeked zombie-chic he’d been nurturing when he first stormed their ship. He needs rest. Uninterrupted, at that.

Which is precisely what Peter’s isn’t. First it’s that goddam hand-holding session, which stirs up his mind and makes his tired body prickle like there’s ants crawling under his skin. Then it’s the skitter.

The skitter goes something like this.

 _Skrtch._ (Stop, pause, listen.) _Skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-chink._ (Clip one of the pipes that line the _Milano’s_ walls, and freeze again.) _Skrtch-skrtch-skrtch-skrtch…_

If Peter’d been his grandpa, he might’ve exclaimed ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ As it is, he settles for a heartfelt “Flark.” It’s only been three months since they ousted their last spaceroach infestation. Little buggers can survive anything, up to and including total vacuum, and they’d been hell to get rid of. Peter’s tempted to draw his pistol and start shooting out of sheer frustration – because how dare the galaxy give him _vermin_ on top of everything else? But that’ll only wake the others. While Gamora doesn’t require much naptime, she gets mighty pissy when she’s jolted from sleep. Peter likes his toenails attached, thank you very much.

His pistol’s near-silent though. If he switches it to its most concentrated setting, there’ll be barely any flash. There’ll also be enough kick to jar his shoulder, but it won’t pop from the socket, so Peter can live with that. If he could just see his target… It’d only take one hit…

He still carries Ravager light-spheres in his knapsack. They’re not as portable as the flat-packed Xandarian alternative, or as durable as Kree gadgets. But there’s no sense ditching them if they ain’t broke. Peter figures he’ll use them until the radioactive components inside reach the ends of their half-lives, and then he’ll switch up to a newer model. Or he’ll just rob Yondu next time they meet.

Next time they meet, when Yondu’s a Ravager Admiral again.

Peter waits until the _skrtch-skrtch-skrtching_ is directly overhead. Then fishes a light-sphere from his cubby, cupping it between one hand and his blanket to direct the beam upwards while his other steadies on the trigger. His makeshift lampshade is far from effective. The sphere shines right through him, lighting him petal-pink and highlighting each bone: carpal, metacarpal, phalanges. But Peter doesn’t notice. He’s too busy swallowing his scream.

Because what he’d assumed to be a bog-standard spaceroach – ugly, scuttly, annoyingly durable – is actually a small blue boy, stuck to the ceiling like a gecko. His eyes throw back the light, red as the reflectors on the back of spaceships in a traffic jam.

Peter doesn’t know who looks more surprised. Him, flat on his back with a pistol barrel menacing the closest thing to a father – and a son – he’s ever had. Or said father/son, whose shocked expression is making a rapid dive to the guilty. And whose little hand has been caught in the act of sneaking into the pocket of Peter’s discarded jacket, rootling, searching for more licorice.

 

* * *

 

Kraglin jerks awake at the thunk of an opening door, fumbling for his knife and brandishing it at the darkness.

“Iq aqchko?” the darkness says. “Flark-flark-flark?” Sighing, Kraglin lets his offensive posture wilt.

“Why’ve you brought him here?” Peter props himself tiredly on the doorframe. He holds Yondu’s hand – to stop the little blighter scurrying away, no doubt. “Aint’ your boyfriend gonna blow a gasket if he finds he’s gone?”

“Me and my _boyfriend,_ ” grumbles Peter, making air quotes with his unoccupied hand, “will be grateful, if you only teach this one the first and second rules of being a Ravager.” _Steal from everyone,_ Kraglin’s frazzled brain supplies. _But not each other._ Peter pauses long enough to swallow his yawn. “And stop him climbing the walls,” he says.

And with that, he shoves Yondu forwards, almost toppling him face-first, and storms away in as straight a line as a half-asleep man can manage. Yondu catches his balance. He looks beseechingly at Kraglin. Refusing to be mollified, Kraglin busies himself with hooking the knife back into his jacket in such a way that it won’t prick any vital organs when he lays down.

“Don’t come cryin’ to me,” he says, flopping on his back with one arm over his eyes. “That were yer own damn fault.”

He points to the opposite bunk. When Yondu slopes towards it, pouting over his shoulder the whole while, Kraglin has to snap off his light sphere so the kid can’t see him grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Happy Christmas, everyone! Drop me a comment if you've read this far; I love them all.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Rocket finds a job, Peter is mistrustful, and we get a look at Kraglin's ship.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Been a while; I got distracted writing smut.**

Rocket sources their job the next day. Looking over the specs, Peter wonders what he's missed.

Rocket holds grudges. It’s what he _does_ – as well as building bombs out of innocent household items, leaving plugs on Peter’s bed, and shedding in the shower. He won’t just have _forgiven_ Yondu after the little blue shit manhandled him.

But there’s nothing suspect about the basic information he hands Peter. It all seems very generic. Practically above-the-board, by Rocket’s standards.

Peter flips the screen. Then flips it again. Then turns the entire holopad on its head and squints at it upside down, in the hopes that a pattern will reveal itself. He finds nothing. For all intents and purposes this job is as it appears: a quick and easy pick up and drop off. They’re acting as couriers for a shipment of Shi’ar medicine. They protect the goods, defend them from bandits, dump ‘em on whatever backwater planet has demanded them, and collect the rest of their payment. Five thousand units up front, another five once the job’s complete. Not much, all things considered – a team of the Guardians’ caliber could demand a lot more. But it’s easy money, and should only take them a couple of revolutions of the astral clock to complete. Anyway, pro bono is good for the soul.

Which makes it even more surprising that Rocket would select this mission out of the hundreds that flag up across the bounty network. Who knows, maybe the little guy does have a heart?

Peter’s been staring at the pad for too long. Sensing his suspicion, Rocket’s hackles bunch and he crosses his arms so tightly that he’d be in danger of concaving his ribs, if they weren’t reinforced with titanium alloy.

“What?” he snaps. Peter clicks the pad off, propping it on one leg. He observes Rocket a moment longer, not quite daring to trust.

“Rocket?”

“ _What?_ ”

“You wouldn’t…” Peter’s voice trails away. He fingers the edge of the pad, plastic warmed from his palms. “You wouldn’t hurt Yondu, would you? Or put him in a position where he might be hurt? Even if you don’t like him much?” Before Rocket can blurt out his kneejerk protest – ornamented no doubt by sputtering, swearing, and expressions of horror that Peter thinks him _capable_ of such a thing – Peter holds up a hand. “First, he’s just a child. I know you know this, objectively, and I know that you don’t really want to hurt a kid. But it’s easy to forget that when you’re mad at him.” From the grumpy twitching of Rocket’s whiskers, he’s near the mark. Peter presses on. If Yondu hadn’t abducted him – who knows? He could’ve been a psychologist. “Second, take a minute – just a minute – to consider what Drax would do to you if he ever found out you’d conspired against the brat.”

Those whiskers twitch faster. Jackpot.

Peter sighs. “I’m going to give this back to you,” he says, brandishing the pad. “And you’re going to go away and look at it, and bring it back to me. If anything’s changed, I won’t mention it.”

There. Amnesty. He waits until he receives a grudging nod. Then scoots the pad forwards so the Rocket can reach it. When it’s returned three hours later with notable amendments – similar specs, as the Shi’ar set up job requests like this all across the quadrant, but located in a much larger and better-populated solar system – Peter sticks to his guns and doesn’t say a word.

He does however, tap the name of that star system into his datapad. Just out of curiosity.

 

* * *

 

Peter strolls into Kraglin’s ship at midday. Or at least, ‘midday’ as it’s commonly referred to on Xandar. Every Empire has a subtly different mode of calculating time, and Xandar’s rotation doesn’t match that of the planets under its own remit, let alone those who answer to the Shi’ar, the Skrulls, or the Kree. Dey had seen fit to install a new chronometer when the _Milano_ got her overhaul. Peter’s not complaining – it’s nice to have some structure in the day. But being a space traveler means resetting one’s body clock whenever you arrive on a new planet. Having an established hour system, rather than just winging it, Ravager-style, means that you feel the jet-lag far more.

Depending on which of Rocket’s jobs they choose, that jet lag could be mild to severe. But that’s not a decision Peter’s willing to make on his own. Not without the input of his most experienced teammate – who may have insider information about why Rocket advises avoiding the Qalqax star system. The little guy’s not going to spill. He’s been conveniently scurrying in the opposite direction every time Peter lays eyes on him. And anyway, Peter’s promise of amnesty holds. He knows Rocket, and he knows that his temper often gets the better of him. He didn’t follow through with his plan – whatever that plan was – and really, that’s all that matters.

Peter can assuage his curiosity through other sources.

The airlock bisects two identical docking tunnels. Peter could be walking into a mirrored reflection of the _Milano,_ were it not for the myriad details that tell the story of the Ravagers’ first mate, from his early years on the crew all the way up to the current day.

Dimmer lighting, to suit the eyes of a man who’d grown up in a subterranean smog-filled metropolis.

Oxy-generators set at high saturation, enough to make Peter’s head go woozy if he stays there long enough, to make up for when a job went wrong and Kraglin lost half a lung.

Freeze-scars emblazoned on the walls from the time a vindictive client pumped the ship full of liquid nitrogen, and every coolant pipe and tank swelled until it burst in a hail of icy shrapnel.

Kraglin’s damn lucky he had the cockpit blast hatch shut at the time. Things had been close though. Very, very close – to the extent that Kraglin and Yondu refuse to admit it. Peter still remembers that day. Yondu had whistled straight through the hermetic seal and kicked the door off his hinges, almost manic in his desperation to know if his mate was alive. Then knelt over Kraglin, covering the shivering scrawny body with his own. His hoarse roar of “medic!” had carried through the M-ship’s scoured hull, bringing icicles shivering from the ceiling.

Kraglin’s as far from sentimental as a sentient being can get without having their brain extracted and replaced by a finely tuned cogwheel. As a result, unlike in the _Milano_ – packed with an ever-burgeoning collection of sentimental tat – Kraglin’s M-Ship is a stark and unrelenting documentary, an assortment of scrapes and scuffs that unwinds the narrative of his life. There’s no cute figurines. Not a dashboard ornament to be seen. Or any pictures, for that matter. Peter can’t even spot any data pads.

Sure, Kraglin’s not exactly literate (although at least nowadays he comes to Peter immediately when he’s got something that needs to be read, rather than forcing them to suffer through his sounding-out of each syllable). But data pads can store more than text. Holo-pics, blueprints, any sort of visual information… Peter hadn’t been expecting much, but he’d kinda hoped Kraglin would at least have _some_ mementos, if only so Peter could poke fun at them.

But despite the lack of clutter – Peter definitely inherited his hoarding tendencies from Yondu – the vessel is still homely. In a weird, Ravagerish kind-of-way. There’s rugs in the common room, made from the pelts of some illegally poached species or another. Stolen prizes hang from hooks like heads on a huntsman’s trophy wall: dusty Klengoffan diamond necklaces and unpolished Asgardian plate armor. And there, by the cockpit ladder sits a small potted plant.

For Obfonteri, the Ravager second who’s about as inclined towards nature as a dung beetle to the ocean, it’s incongruous. For Kraglin, who has shared quarters with a forest-born Centaurian on the sly since before Peter was sucked into their lives via traction ray, it’s adorable. The leaves droop, off-yellow and near wilt. Peter resolves to do some research and find out what sort of compost it needs. Yondu’s not old enough to tend to it properly yet, and he won’t appreciate Kraglin committing manslaughter-by-negligence on his potplant.

First though, Peter’s gotta talk to him.

He hauls himself into the cockpit, step by step. Kraglin knows he’s coming. There’s no way anyone could mistake the grind of boots on rusted copper rungs. As Gamora’s far lighter on her feet and Drax wouldn't visit unless it pertained to Yondu’s safety, Peter’s the only remaining culprit. Sure enough, Kraglin’s voice rings out before Peter can pop his head through the hatch.

“What is it, Quill?” He lounges sidesaddle, boot soles propped on the chair opposite. Peter grimaces. He’s been living with Gamora too long, if his first instinct is to shove them off the copilot’s cushion and tell Kraglin that the floor’s built for treading on, so perhaps he should use it. Kraglin flashes Peter a twitchy scowl. He returns to watching the scud of passing stars at lightspeed, which leave stringy trails of light through the abyss like blown paint on canvas. “You want sumthin’? Or do ya wanna flark off and leave me in peace?”

The grouchiness is feigned. Peter thinks. Kraglin’s always been antisocial. There’s only one person he willfully spends prolonged bouts of time with, so now that person’s a kid who’d rather be play-wrestling his new adopted dad. The solitude must be… wearing.

Peter shakes himself before he can feel guilty about only visiting Kraglin when Yondu’s antics have pissed off any other prospective babysitters – or, as in this case, when he needs his expertise. If Kraglin’s lonely, he can come chill in the _Milano_. Sure, the Guardians don’t like him. But it’s not like they’ve forbidden him from showing his face. The only way to make Peter’s motley crew amenable to someone’s presence is through prolonged exposure; Kraglin sloping around like Norman No-Mates doesn’t do him any favors.

“You know anything about Qalqax Star System?” he asks. Kraglin’s face goes artfully still.

“Why you askin’.”

Ah. Peter’s on the right track. “Because we’re picking up a job with the Shi’ar hospital syndicate, and I just overheard a report on their broadcasting network that says Ravagers have been sighted in the area. They’re on full alert. Any idea why your boys would be sniffing around there?”

Kraglin’s face goes an interesting shade of motley red. He looks like a fly agaric, white specks highlighting the jut of his cheekbones and nose and the wrinkles on his tight-clenched chin. “They wouldn’t dare,” he hisses.

“They’re Ravagers,” says Peter breezily. “I’m sure that they would. Crazy, volatile, a little rabid… Isn’t that how you and Yondu breed them?”

“The Ravagers ain’t dogs; they’re men.” Kraglin’s expression scrunches like it’s precluding implosion. Peter can’t quite make out what he’s projecting – rage, yes; a promise of violence, definitely; but there’s a fair amount of grudging understanding too. “And men betray men. Even them that’s done most for ‘em.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments plz, they motivate me to continue.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Groot builds walls, Yondu is a bully, and Peter talks Kraglin down (with help from Rocket).**

“I’m going,” is the first thing Kraglin says. “Solo, if I gotta.” And he stands, gaunt and sickly-looking in the pallid light. His red jumpsuit might as well be blood-soaked. It will be soon enough, if Kraglin swans off alone.

Peter catches his sleeve. He’s gone to the not-inconsiderable effort of convincing his crew that this discussion is more important than their favored pastimes (sharpening knives, sharpening swords, and fiddling with gadgets that Rocket solemnly swears aren’t built to go boom). Now he has them gathered around the Milano’s central hub, like hell will he sabotage their team-vibes to pander to Kraglin’s deathwish.

“No you’re not. You think Yondu’d thank you for dying over – what? A little bit of gold?”

Kraglin and Rocket scoff and cross their arms. Then realize they’ve mirrored each other, glare, and hastily assume new positions. “A _little_ bit?” Rocket asks. “On what planet is an entire frutarkin’ _moon_ stuffed with treasure a ‘little bit’?”

“Yeah well.” Peter’s efforts at tugging Kraglin to sit are met with Kraglin locking out his legs and standing stiff as a cadaver. “A ‘little bit’ might be all that’s left after Taserface reaches it.”

“Which,” says Kraglin, extracting his sleeve from Peter’s grip, “is why we gotta get there first.”

Rocket has yet to stop sneering. “An’ here was me thinking ya didn’t know where ol’ blue kept his stash…”

“I don’t! Not exactly.” Kraglin glances at the boy in the corner. Yondu’s destroying stacks of nuts and bolts as fast as Groot can pile them. He’s past the age where he wants to play with the Guardians’ youngest member. One cheek’s propped on his palm, and although he can’t understand a word, he’s watching the adults’ conversation in the hopes that they’ll notice his tedium and come enliven the game. “I know it’s somewhere in that system, thas all. But there’s thousands of moons to choose from. This could be any one of ‘em. And Yondu’s too smart to leave any clues lying around – Taserface don’t know any more than we do.”

“It’s not like we’ve got an advantage though,” Gamora argues. Having observed their bickering silently until now, when she speaks up the others take notice. “Yondu can’t tell us anything. Not at his current age.”

“Aq-gazkaqk-boqaku,” says Yondu. They ignore him.

“You’re not doing this,” says Peter. He hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels.

Kraglin exhales in an irritated gush. “You ain’t my captain, Petey. Don’t’chu order me about.”

Surprisingly – or unsurprisingly, as he can always be relied upon to chase the biggest moneypot – Rocket comes to the rescue. “I’m with Skinny on this one,” he announces, clambering onto his chair. Then, after a quick glance around, onto the table too, maximizing his slight height vantage over the seated Guardians. He ignores Gamora’s frown, cheerfully introducing unwiped feet to the surface they dine on, and jabs his index-claw at Kraglin. “Ain’t letting him hog the reward.”

“There,” says Peter, who hides his relief as well as his concern – i.e., shoddily, but with enough tangible effort the others don’t point it out. “Now you don’t have to go on a suicide mission. We’ll come too.” Drax’s chest expands, preceding a lecture. Wincing, Peter cuts him off. “With the exception of Drax, who’s on babysitting duty. Lucky you.”

“Yes,” intones Drax, casting a mollifying gaze at Yondu. Yondu, sulking about being ignored, huffs and turns to face the wall. “I am lucky indeed.”

His smile is soft and small and everything the Destroyer isn’t. Peter fights the warm curl in his gut, but even his powers of denial can’t refute its existence completely. Rocket picks crud from his fangs. “Sap,” he accuses. Drax tilts his head.

“The _Milano_ is made from metals, as far as I’m aware, not wood. If it – apologies Quill; _she_ – is leaking, something may be seriously amiss.” He glances worriedly at the children, then to Peter. “I want to protect those I care about, but I understand that you have some foolish fondness for this lifeless vessel. I will stay and help you fix it while the others head for the escape pods.”

That internal warmth germinates, sprouts, surges into full springtime blossom. Peter grins. He’s established himself on the opposite side of the table to Drax – partially to resist the urge to touch him at inappropriate moments, mostly so he has a better excuse for looking at him. As such, he can’t squeeze his shoulder like he wants. Not without leaning into Rocket’s personal space, which will earn a glower and a scratched ear. But when he raises his leg, holding his breath in hope that he won’t scrape Gamora, his bootsole nudges Drax’s thigh.

Drax jumps. Places the touch. Relaxes. He doesn’t even mention it out loud. His race, despite their literal nature, must understand that some things are better enjoyed in privacy.

“Ship’s not scuppered,” Peter says, dragging his boot across Drax’s shin in what he hopes is a soothing way. “No sap – Rocket was just trying to insult you.” Rocket’s whiskers shrivel. He flaps his paws at Peter, signalling  _‘cease and desist’_  . Luckily, Drax is too distracted by Peter’s foot to be offended.

The contact’s a tiny electric circuit, completed by their touch. They haven’t touched each other since the night before. Breakfast, eaten before Peter sought out Kraglin and spurred this meeting, had been a casual affair. Any potential awkwardness was diminished by Peter’s pre-coffee zombie impersonation – that or he’d simply been too brain-dead to remember it. Technically, the granules in the massive vat that’s the first thing you see when you walk in the kitchen aren’t actually _coffee,_ but something chemically comparable which has much the same effect on Terrans. Peter’d lifted a canister of the stuff five years back, when he was organizing smuggler runs through Empire Space, ferrying untaxed contraband and bootleg to those that would pay for it in bulk. As of now, it’s only a third empty. It’ll last him another ten years yet, unless his addiction gets out of control.

Unbidden, Peter’s imagination offers up an image of Drax and him passing a steaming mug between them, cuddled under a blanket on the _Milano’s_ observation deck.

His boot twitches, burrowing under Drax’s kneecap. Drax jumps. His thighs clonk the underside of the table. Peter has just enough time to return his foot to where it’s supposed to be – sandwiched flat to the floor, innocent and unassuming – before Kraglin peers under.

“What was that, big guy? Something bite ya?” Drax, in lieu of lying – a pursuit as foreign to him as jiving to Peter’s music, showing mercy on the battlefield, and singing in anything other than a hermeneutic monotone – fastens his lips and doesn’t reply. Peter applauds the effort, truly he does. But it’s useless. From the way Kraglin’s smirking, he’s sussed their game. “You two…”

At this moment Yondu, who’s survived having the brunt of their attention fixed on something Not Himself for five whole minutes, decides that enough is enough.

“Akq-goqxuqchkxa!” he yells. “Flark!” He hurls Groot’s latest construction against the wall.

It’s not exactly a work of architectural genius. The tower is built from pickings, salvaged from one of Rocket’s stashes of detritus (‘floor storage systems’, he likes to call them). It’s stuck together with industrial-grade engine grease and hope. It wouldn’t have lasted the hour, with or without Yondu’s interference.

But it was Groot’s.

His tiny face crumples. As much as bark grain _can_ crumple, that is. And then, for the first time in Peter’s memory, Groot wilts onto the floor and begins to cry.

Yondu, shoulders heaving, kicks the wreckage for good measure. “Iq-acqxchka,” he says to Groot – something scathing, no doubt. And then he storms out.

Peter screeches his chair back. But Drax stands too, and steps around the table in a motion too graceful for a man of his bulk, catching Peter before he can follow. “No. Don’t chase him. You’ll only teach him that such behavior is acceptable.”

Rocket’s already darted from his seat to fret over Groot. Groot snivels into his twiggy forearms, and Rocket wrings his hands at a loss. Before, he was the emotional one. Needing to comfort his old friend – his old friend who is not so old anymore, who may have been eradicated entirely, who lives on only in this new iteration – must feel strange and alien. But Rocket, being an alien himself, works around it. He plonks himself besides Groot and tentatively places his palm over the quivering body, running blunt claw-backs over minuscule shoulders. “Uh. S’okay, kid. I’ll help ya rebuild it.”

Peter wants to go over there to add his concerned face besides Rocket’s, which hovers above the baby tree like a furry black-pitted moon. He wants to apologize on Yondu’s behalf – which is all kinds of stupid, because while the kid might be his responsibility, he’s not _his._ But Drax holds him back. “It would be best not to crowd him,” he murmurs.

Gamora nods. She stands in a flex of skintight cloth and lilac-dipped hair and breezes to the wall, against which the remnants of Groot’s tower lay like fragments of a fallen colossus. Calmly, as if she’s fulfilling one of the humdrum daily chores that are listed by urgency on the Guardians’ roster, she begins to scoop the debris into piles.

Rocket eases Groot’s chin up. He tilts his head at Gamora, who shuffles to one side to give the kid a clear view of the reconstruction process. “We’ll all help, yeah?”

It’s said as a question rather than a statement. Peter takes it upon himself to answer, nudging Drax’s restraining hand away with no small reluctance. “Yeah,” he says, winking at the pair. Plucking his headphones from their belt-clip, he props them on the table and cranks the volume to full. “C’mon, team. All together.”

They clean to the hoarse belt of _Come and Get Your Love._ Even Kraglin helps.

By the time Yondu sneaks back, strop subsiding to loneliness, the six of them sit cross-legged in a circle. The construction teeters dangerously in Peter’s direction, but Groot’s clapping his hands and chirping every time they glue a spare clump of wiring to the top of the unwieldy jenga-stack, so they keep going. Peter doesn’t even question where Rocket found half this stuff. Although he will be running inventory on his poor girl’s innards, as soon as they’re through. And ensuring that the job of scrubbing grease from the floor grates, armed with a froth of solvents and a pair of shrink-to-fit Xandarian cleaning gloves, falls on someone else’s chore list.

“Ix kqxcha?” a quiet, withdrawn little voice cheeps from the anterior passage. Peter turns to Groot. Anything to stop him being swayed by fidgeting blue fingers and wet red eyes.

“What d’you think, buddy? Can Yondu help?”

Groot pauses in his padding of the tower base, having wound miniature roots from his hands to secure it in place. He peeks at Yondu around it, then quickly ducks away. “I am Groot.”

Yondu glowers, confrontational to disguise his embarrassment. “Ix kqxcha,” he repeats.

Peter holds his breath. Is Yondu actually… apologizing? Of his own volition, this time? Although the words aren’t the same as those he’d given Rocket under duress – which begs the question of what he’d actually been saying… But Peter can let that slide, for now. This feels genuine. Actual repentance. He’s never known Yondu to nurture a wisp of guilt, let alone enough to fuel an ‘I’m sorry’.

Groot must sense it too. He draws out the silence for a whole minute – during which Yondu shuffles his feet and glares at the pattern stitched around the waistband of his dark red pants. When he sighs and turns away to – well, who knows what? Cram himself into a vent duct like Peter used to do when he was angry or afraid? – Groot decides on mercy. He tips a magnanimous nod. “I am Groot,” he chirps. “I am Groot, I am Groot.”

“Ix kqxcha,” says Yondu again. His voice veers on strangled. He side-steps to the fringes of the group, almost tip-toeing, eyes on the unstable tower as if terrified a single out-of-place footfall will cause the whole thing to judder apart, resulting in his permanent banishment. When no such collapse occurs, he lets out the breath he’s been holding and flings himself onto Drax’s lap. “Sh’bxcqahk,” he mutters, tugging on one massive arm until it drapes around him, blanket-style. “Chxz-hcqhak- _tsu_.”

That phrase finishes with a short sharp whistle. It sounds maturer than the ones Yondu’s been pushing out since he was old enough to toddle. Almost like it could summon an arrow.

The hairs on Peter’s neck raise. He checks behind himself, just in case – but there’s no hovering shaft, red with radiation and sharper than an axehead hewn from diamond. “I wish I knew what he’s saying,” he says. Then, as Yondu rearranges himself so he’s tucked with his knees to his chest, bare feet warmed on Drax’s calves with an arm sandwiching him from either side, using the mammoth man like a shawl – “And why he’s cold constantly. Any ideas, Krags?”

Kraglin shrugs, pasting a nut on the tower’s more concave flank. “He always wore lotsa layers. Proper sweaty stuff too. Even when we was on hot planets. Like he don’t generate his own heat, or somethin’.”

“That could be it…” Peter contemplates the boy, who seems content enough to sit with his crest squashed to Drax’s bare chest, absorbing warmth from the swarthy body surrounding him. “But on Xandar, in direct sunlight, he was still shivering.”

“Hm.” Gamora selects a screw. She holds it out to Groot for approval before delicately pincering it between finger and thumb and levering it into a gap at the tower’s precipice. Her cybernetics calculate the exact amount of pressure that’s required to squeeze it into place. “Perhaps the issue is not the amount of heat, or the strength of the starshine, but the atmosphere?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” Gamora nods at Yondu, waves of hair resettling over her slim green back. She can bear to look at him for more than five seconds now – whether he’s past the age of that nameless girl, the one Peter knows better than to press for details on, or whether simply sharing that story from the darkest part of her life has made her more comfortable, Peter won’t know until Gamora sees fit to tell. “He is content now, yes? Humidity rises in proximity with other bodies. Xandar is a very arid planet, despite the water content on its surface. The air is rarely saturated. Yet Yondu comes from a different climate entirely. Warm, yes, but also very wet. If his species constantly radiate bodyheat, then that humidity would trap it against them, similar to the effect of a lot of overlaid leather.”

 _Swampy, sweaty boondocks of the Silver Spiral_. That’s how Yondu’d described his homeplanet the one time Peter got him drunk enough to discuss origins.

“So he needs layers more than exterior heat sources,” Peter muses. He looks Yondu up and down. Yondu chirps at him, cheeks still flushed from his earlier display of humility. He wriggles around, pointedly pressing his face against Drax’s chest, and pretends he doesn’t know he’s the topic of conversation. As a result, the sweeping rise of his crest, now standing a full ten inches from his skull, cleaves Peter’s vision. Drax, banned from joining the construction efforts by lieu of his large clumsy fingers, proves that he’s capable of gentleness as he strokes them down Yondu’s back. The crest flutters amber as Yondu purrs. “Shame about his fin. It’s gonna make it difficult to wrap him up properly.”

Kraglin holds a bolt in place so Rocket can prop a piece of scorched junk against it, which might once have been a fender. “Don’t worry,” he says, as Peter positions the crowning piece – a star-shaped chunk of axle, perched on their foot-high scrapheap structure like an angel at the top of a Christmas tree. “He told me how old he was one he lost it. ‘Bout sixteen, by his planet’s reckoning. So we’ve only got ten days left.”

Peter drops the star.

The tower falls again. Chunks of metal, mineral, and miscellaneous clang like church bells as they skitter across the grates. And as Peter apologizes to Rocket, then Groot, then Rocket again – who is angrier than ever on his friend’s behalf – he thinks of how much growing Yondu has left to do.

That crest’s gonna be magnificent. Resplendent. Flark knows what it means in Centaurian culture, but Peter’d lay bets on it signifying virility, masculinity, maturity – everything an adult hunter of a tribe should aspire to. And Yondu’s never gonna get to feel its full weight on the back of his head. Because at sixteen, long before he reaches the peak of his growth cycle – if his species is comparable to Terrans in that regard – something is gonna happen. And rather than looking forwards to finding out more about his once-captain’s life, Peter’s starting to dread what that _something_ might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Been a while, my friends! Got distracted by life. I also want to drag this fic out until GOTG 2, because the fandom's kinda... very sleepy at the moment. Not that I don't love you guys (I do! And I cherish every comment so muuuuch) but the more the merrier, y'know? So I'm going to slow down on the update front. Just a lil.**
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> **Hope a long chapter (by the standards of this fic) makes up for the wait.**
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> ****


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the gang heads off on a treasure hunt, Drax plays I-spy, and Kraglin almost says something mushy.**

The road to Qalqax is short and straight. Technically, any road through space is short and straight if you travel via a warp-gate, which (according to Peter’s meagre knowledge of physics) pinch space at two far-removed points, then folds along the middle until those points are next door. But warp-gates are also the remit of the Empires. Peter doesn’t fancy sloughing through a thousand reams of paperwork just so he can be interrogated by Customs as to why he’s taking his team to a tiny unpopulated star-system with such urgency. Saying he’s hunting for his not-dad, not-son’s treasure won’t cut it. The Nova and the Shi’ar would probably put aside their differences and team up to return the stolen goods to ‘their rightful owners’, or some other such flarkery.

Honestly, thinks Peter, charting a course that swings them around past the iridescent green of the nearest gate. Don’t they know anything? Stealers, keepers; losers, weepers. That’s the Ravager way.

The main proponent of that ‘Ravager way’ sits beside him in the cockpit. Or rather, Drax sits and Yondu perches on his lap. He plucks at the belts strapping him to Drax’s chest, looking down his nose as if to say ‘you think these puny bonds will hold me?’ But the snooty six year old will be grateful for them once their light speed drive engages, and the ship seems to simultaneously flip over itself and turn inside out before belching them into Deep Space.

The Guardians, more than accustomed to it, simply grit their teeth and continue bickering. Their latest subject is whether they should get Groot his own miniature clothing, after going through so much effort to attire Yondu. But Yondu yelps and clings to Drax, all cockiness washed away. Peter can’t help but smirk. He guns the engines, rougher on the clutch than usual, and spits them towards their destination in a hum of fragmenting light.

 

* * *

 

The Qalqax system spreads across the nav screen in a dew-studded spiderweb.

A thousand miniature dots splay out in widening rings. They’re the debris, left over from when this star-system crashed into its neighbor over a hundred thousand years ago. The planets smashed and splintered and the stars fed on each other’s energy until one wizened to cold gas, mortal combat on a cosmic scale.

Now though, in the battle’s aftermath, things are all but still. Comets zoom through intricate chicanes of space-borne rubble and gas giants, sometimes colliding, sometimes fracturing, sometimes overcoming gravity’s lull and hurtling into the bleak abyss beyond. Asteroids orbit asteroids. Atmospheres are weak to the point of non-existent, except for those that gird the gaseous globes that hang at Qalqax’s far edge. They’re noxious and alkali, too hazardous even for space-masks. Flitting colors fill the cockpit screen, as storms rage around their bulging waistlines.

There’s nothing left alive. And yet, there is life. There’s so much _motion_ ; the entire star-system is an echo chamber through which the shockwaves from that long-ago collision still ripple, and will continue to do so for another millennia.

Years ago, Peter would’ve felt queasy at the scale of it. But he’s seen so much now that the sight doesn’t register as more than an irritating sequence of obstacles that have to be navigated, if they want to reach their goal. “Look at this,” he grumbles, flicking the rad-reader. “ _Everything’s_ irradiated. That level of ionization would mask the _Dark_ flarking _Aster._ The _Eclector_ could be anywhere in this system, and we wouldn’t be able to tell until we were on top of her.”

Kraglin, hooking bony elbows over Peter’s headrest, huffs hot air on his scalp. “Hmm.” Ignoring Peter, who tries ineffectively to slap him away (“Quit blowing on my head man; that’s weird”) he gives the chart a poke of his own. Peter would snap at him for defiling the _Milano’s_ precious nav-system. But despite Kraglin’s lacking literacy skills, he’s the snappiest damn chart reader in the whole Ravager army. “Well, bring up whatever specs ya can find on these husks. Let’s see if there’s any with names we might recognize; places Yondu might choose for his stash.”

“Why?” But Peter follows as Kraglin hops down the hatch and struts to the table, carrying a portable hologram of the star chart with him. The others trail after, with varying degrees of interest, Yondu not included. It’s been a three day flight-by-lightspeed, and Yondu’s spent most of it (besides being sucked into and regurgitated from the cube) knelt over the waste disposal unit. Having a year between each excursion to the Andromeda galaxy doesn’t give him enough time to train his spacelegs.

As a result, now that they’re pootling along at normal speed, Drax and Yondu remain seated. While they wait for Yondu’s stomach to settle, Drax claims. But Peter suspects it has more to do with the marvelling expression on the boy’s face as he watches shooting stars pepper the asteroid belts that loop this system in an intricate sailor-knot. He smiles to himself, watching Drax watch Yondu, before Kraglin’s knowing nudge brings him to the topic at hand. He clears his throat. “I mean, it’s not like he’ll have named it ‘X-Marks-The-Spot’.”

“No. But there’ll have been some sorta contingency. In case, uh, the worst happened.”

Oh.

Ravagers don’t write wills. But they’re a superstitious lot, in the way of all spacefarers. Accompanying their tales of M-ships flying themselves into dock at night and lights settling on the bunks of crew lost in battle, there are unspoken parameters tied to the distribution of a dead man’s goods. They’re not always adhered to, and never vocally acknowledged in case the speaker is accused of sentiment. But they’re there. In Yondu’s case, an untimely death would result in an even split of his property between Peter, Kraglin, and any Ravager gold-hungry and ruthless enough to risk the wrath of his ghost.

There’s no need to worry about that, as Yondu’s not dead. But it’s only the Guardians and Kraglin who are privy to that knowledge, and Taserface was never one to be put off by scary stories. If he’s gotten his hands on Yondu's info, he’ll rip this system to methodical shreds before he spares a thought for being haunted by a restless ex-captain.

And if he finds out that ex-captain’s still alive, posing a threat to his rule? Peter shudders. Best Taserface remain in the dark about their time-jumping mishap. At least until Yondu’s old enough to put an arrow through his throat.

Although, with all this in mind…

“How’d he find out about the stash anyway?” he asks. It’s meant rhetorically, a musing aired to the universe at large. What he’s not expecting is for Kraglin to sink low in his claimed chair, chin tucked to reedy chest.

They all sense the weakness, but it’s Rocket who pounces on it. “You told him! Why? That’s flark-loads of treasure at stake! How could ya do this to me –“

Kraglin brings a balled fist down on the tabletop. The ringing crash brings Rocket’s tirade to a halt. “It was before I left,” he says quietly. Peter, recalling the awful gaunt pits of Kraglin’s eyesockets from when he’d first threatened to ram their now-conjoined M-ships together, swallows a mouthful of spit.

“Kraglin –“

“Nothin’ mattered anymore. I mean… Gold was just gold, without Yondu…” He cuts off before he devolves into a gush of sentimental drivel. Peter’s glad. Raised Ravager, he’s far from accustomed to PDA – or public declarations of affection, for that matter. “At least thas what I thought at the time.” Kraglin’s head tips forwards, shadows gathering liquidlike over his sallow face. He studies the tabletop as he delivers his final verdict: “So I told Tasie he was welcome to it.”

Rocket still looks aggrieved – moreso at the thought of potential lost riches than Kraglin’s near miss with mental breakdown. “Nothing _mattered?_ Are you loco, skinny? That’s money! The only damn thing in this galaxy that _does_ matter!” But when Peter shoots him a look, he stands down. “Uh. Besides like, love and kindness and the power of friendship, and all that flark.”

Rather than being offended, Kraglin cracks a smile. “Yeah, I came round. But I didn’t think Tasie’d take me up on it.”

He evidently has a higher opinion of Taserface than Peter. Having cultivated only mutual hatred for the one guy on the _Eclector_ crew more eager for his roasting than Horuz, Peter couldn’t claim to be surprised by this turn of events. But there’s something else pawing at his mind…

“So why’s Taserface got the fleet nabbing Shi’ar medical supplies? That’s not something Ravagers have ever dabbled in. Is he just trying to one-up Yondu’s earnings, or is there something we don’t know?”

Gamora, silent until now, breaks the silence by drawing a glittering sword. “I suggest,” she says, lit ghoulishly by the bounce-back of light from the blade, “that we ask him ourselves.”

 

* * *

 

Finding the _Eclector_ is easier said than done. The next two days are spent prowling through the shattered starscape, deflecting cosmic dust and boulders from their shields. Sometimes the two M-ships have to split apart to manoeuvre through the hazard-fraught currents of debris, sometimes they have to clamp together and power their joint shields to max to batter through a particularly relentless hail. And, between all the ducking and weaving and sprinting from one cockpit to the other, Peter and Kraglin bury themselves in the starcharts, pouring over each named hunk of rock in search of one that might’ve caught Yondu’s eye.

“What’re we even looking for?” Peter complains, after a particularly grueling hour spent examining every asteroid in their immediate vicinity under a magnifying glass. Kraglin, who’s been the recipient of this question more times in that hour than in his entire lifetime, massages the taut skin between his eyebrows and gives his customary answer in tight-jawed monosyllables.

“I. Don’t. Know.”

“I mean,” continues Peter, ignoring the frustration that emanates from the man besides him. “It could be anything, right? Who knows what goes on in that blue a-hole’s head?”

There's twitter of clicks from the cockpit above, where Gamora and Rocket plot their course, overseen by Drax, Groot, and Yondu himself. It’s followed by a whirlwind of little blue arms and legs (little blue arms and legs that aren’t so little anymore) as an eleven-year-old Yondu hops through the trapdoor. He’s uncaring of the drop, or Drax’s shocked bellow of warning. Absorbing the impact as easily as if he’s stepped from the bottom of a slide, he sets off through the _Milano_ and _Warbird’s_ halls as if his crest’s on fire.

“…Or the little blue a-hole. Any idea what that was about?”

“I do not,” says Drax. His grey mug – his stupid handsome grey mug; shut up Peter – fills the hole like a portrait in a frame. “We were merely playing a game of ‘I-spy’ when he launched himself from his chair and fled.”

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah, he _does_ suck at that game.” Rocket squeezes himself into view, Groot clinging to a furry shoulder. He rolls his eyes at Drax, who sucks in to make space. “Buddy, y’know you gotta look for the little things. ‘Asteroid’ and ‘space’ and ‘planet’ only have so many syno… syno-whatsits.”

“Synonyms,” Gamora offers from the pilot’s seat. It sounds like it’s said around a smile. Peter finds himself emulating it.

“See, you do like that game! And here was me thinking ‘foolish Terran pursuits’ were beneath you?”

“All that is beneath the green wench – apologies, I mean, the green woman – is her seat. Is that what you refer to, Quill?”

“No Drax. No it is not. But…” Peter gives him a hearty thumbs up. “Good guess, pal. Now, why don’t you and me go on a kiddo-hunt? The other guys can handle steering.”

“You just wanna get out of looking at more maps,” says Kraglin – and okay, he may have a point, but that doesn’t mean Peter deserves the swift-and-sneaky kick to the shin as he stands to leave. Peter retaliates with a shove, remembering the many petty slap-fests back on the _Eclector,_ in the days before he’d heard of Morag or a certain orb-recovering job commissioned by the owner of the finest eyebrows on Xandar.

“Boys,” mutters Gamora, while Rocket whoops and holds up his hand for Groot to deliver a tiny three-fingered high-five, proclaiming his money to be on Peter. “Why don’t you all go? Obfonteri, you could use a break.”

Kraglin seems surprised that she cares enough to point that out. Peter takes advantage of his distraction, dealing his final blow in a flick to the Ravager mate’s ear. “Ow! Flark. And no way in hell, Greenie. I ain’t playin’ third wheel.”

Peter shoots him the finger. He spares the other for Rocket, who’s laughing so hard he almost chokes on spit and falls through the hatch. Part-animal Rocket may be, but he doesn’t necessarily land on his feet, and his grip on the trapdoor cover is precarious as it is. Last thing they need is him slipping and breaking his neck. Although if he keeps guffawing like that, Peter’s opinion on the matter may change.

“C’mon,” he growls, stalking over to Drax. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry for the wait; been busy working on a new Kragdu project with the awesome RedRarebit! We'll have stuff for you to check out... soon. Ish. Maybe. Fingers crossed? XD**


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which our heroes enter the stash-teroid. (Yes, I am very proud of that pun.)**

“So,” Peter says. They amble side-by-side. If Kraglin and Rocket had bagsied Yondu-chasing duties, they’d be careering around corners so fast that sparks would fly from their respective boots and paws. But Drax and Peter feel no such urgency. They saunter at a sedate place, maximizing the time spent in each other’s company. “What sort of stash do you think we’ll be looking at?”

Small talk. Peter already has some idea. There’s plenty in this galaxy that’s worth more than gold; if Yondu has half a brain on him, he’ll have invested in high-demand low-supply commodities like Peter’s coffee substitute. And – oh God. Imagine finding an asteroid stuffed with _that._ Peter will have to make Gamora confiscate the stuff so he isn’t tempted to plough through it solo.

Drax’s shoulders would make an oncoming bulldozer think twice. Peter has to lean to one side so he’s not smacked in the eye when he shrugs. “I know little of money.”

“Really?” Dumb question. Luckily, Drax’s interpreting skills improve every day. Halting mid-corridor, he gives Peter an assessing look. But he decides that he’s being rhetorical rather than questioning his candor, and instead of crushing him like a skinless grape, he nods and continues on his way. Peter smiles to himself. Baby-steps. “What did you use on your planet?” he asks, lengthening his lope to catch up. “Back home, I mean.”

Home. A word that boasts differing nuances in each of the Galaxy’s nine million eight hundred and sixty seven thousand nine hundred and thirty four registered dialects. In Zen Whoberian, ‘place of residence’ and ‘home’ are one and the same. Peter’d been amazed that Gamora referred to Titan Crag as her ‘home’, until she sat him down and interrogated him until they’d worked out the discrepancy between their languages. He has no idea how the word will translate into… The local patois of whatever species Drax belongs to (he never specified, and growing up among aliens means Peter soon learnt which topics tend to be sensitive). But semantics aside, the word holds deep and evocative connotations. Drax’s back tenses, so rapidly that Peter imagines tiny winches and cranes pulling muscle taut under the scarified skin.

“We had no such currency,” he says softly. “We traded hunted and farmed goods for services – until the Accuser came.”

Peter’s hand wavers an inch from touching. He’s never been one for thinking before he speaks, but dammit, there’s a reason Drax so rarely talks about his past. It’s not Peter’s place to dredge those memories to the surface. If only he knew how to offer comfort…

But when he works up the guts to fold his palm over Drax’s bunching trapezius, his friend is smiling. “Buddy? You okay?”

“A pleasant recollection.”

“Of what?”

Drax’s eyes crinkle as he shoots Peter a sidelong glance. “Of the day I taught my daughter to wield a knife. We caught and gutted much vermin together. Then she would watch as I battled the larger creatures that prowled through the canyon, and cheer when I drew blood, no matter how slight the wound.” He sighs wistfully. But his happy crows’ feet have yet to fade. Peter, chest clenching, prays they never will. “She would be eighteen, had she lived,” Drax continues. “A proud huntress and a beautiful woman, as her mother before her. She would have paved her floors in the severed heads of her victims. And I would have been so proud, Peter Quill. So very proud.”

Drax smiles rarely.

Okay, that’s a lie. But usually when he laughs it means someone’s about to die, and Peter’s less concerned with watching his face than he is with smoothing things over, because _we’re heroes now, buddy; we can’t just go removing spines whenever someone gives us a parking ticket._ Smiles like these – quiet, introverted smiles – are more priceless than any treasure in Yondu’s hoard. They also make Drax’s lips look sinfully soft and kissable. There’s nothing feminine about his face (and, to Peter’s ongoing surprise, he wouldn’t want there to be). Yet Peter longs to cup it between his hands, to stroke that dimple at the corner of Drax’s mouth with his tongue…

“Jqkx-thkaq? Flark?”

Drax breaks away, smile devolving. “No flark, Yondu.”

Peter, head slanted to one side and lips pursed, has to blink several times. By the time he’s come to his senses – electrified though they are, each nerve prickling with the certainty that _Drax had been leaning in too_ – Drax is halfway through the _Milano’s_ rearmost hold, treating Yondu to his sternest glare. “No flark.”

“Flark?”

“No. Flark.”

“Flark-flark.”

Peter shakes himself. “Stop it, Drax. He only says it because he knows it makes you mad.” Yondu’s giggle confirms. Little shit.

But that little shit’s also pointing out the main hatch porthole, and – by the stars; Peter’s just thankful that the door is calibrated to remain closed during flight, because Yondu pokes every bright shiny button in his reach. Thinking about it, they’ve been letting a kid from a non-contacted planet run around the ship with zero knowledge of space. They’re lucky he hasn’t stumbled out an airlock.

Peter resolves to string together a lecture on evacuation safety procedure that’s comprehensible to someone whose sum of the Xandarian language consists of a single word. A word Yondu says again, with growing desperation, as he realizes the _Milano_ is moving away from the object that’s caught his attention.

The large, asteroid shaped object.

The large, asteroid shaped object that has a strange squiggle on one side, which could – from a distance, and if seen while the glare from the star washes over it at the right angle – be a letter in a primitive alphabet.

Peter grins. He plasters his forehead to the window, pulling Yondu in for an affectionate side-hug. “Jackpot,” he breathes.

  


* * *

  


The asteroid is too jagged and irregular to be a moon, although it orbits one of the micro-planets that swoop around the sun in elliptical, ever-shrinking circles until they’re sucked in to burn. When that day comes, this barren lump of spacerock will smolder with it. But that eventuality is determined on a scale of millennia rather than minutes. Peter and his crew have all the time they need.

Which is good, because there is a _lot_ of treasure.

“Holy flark,” murmurs Rocket. Gamora looks awed too – at least, the sheet of curved opaque glass keeping her from depressurizing gives off an awed aura. She makes to propel herself through the entrance hold and into the gleaming lair. Peter grabs her arm. It feels reedy through the thick folds of the spacesuit, but at the same time stronger than fortified steel. He’s glad he has a forcefield-generating spacemask – the whole body suits always make him feel like he’s wading through a mire, even in zero gravity.

“Careful. Booby traps.”

Yondu has, as Peter suspected, opted out of stockpiling gold. He hasn’t stashed all his eggs in one basket either – although there’s plenty of them to be found too: some kept in suspended animation; some in tubes of preservative, fetuses ghostly silhouettes trapped in translucent shells; some decorated with cushion-cut gemstones in the Andromeda galaxy’s own spectacular interpretation of Faberge. Yondu’s stockpile ranges from the mundane – essential ship parts: hull plates and windscreen glass and depowered fusion engines, all of a far higher quality than those utilized in the Ravager fleet – to the marvelous. There’s a stuffed Bilgesnipe, taking up one corner of the asteroid. Its horns have been carved to resemble the swirling vines and snakes Asgardians engrave on their vambraces. There’s jewellery and haberdashery of such extravagance and proportion – entire floor-to-ceiling _curtains_ of fire opals and diamonds forged in the heart of stars – that Peter feels giddy looking at it. And, most resplendent of all, is Yondu’s weapons collection.

Peter recognizes A’askavarian bone-scythes, Asgardian swords, Kree warhammers. He sees Nova pistols – some antique, some modern, some looking like futuristic prototypes that Yondu must’ve stolen or bartered direct from the R&D labs. There’s Kashyyyk crossbows and Kymorelian spiked horseshoes, and a whole plethora of bombs.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter spies Rocket’s twitching nose.

“Don’t you da–“ is all he has time to say. Then the little blighter’s off: bounding through the illustrious debris. It ornaments Yondu’s grotto in no especial order: a melee of riches bobbing through the atmosphere-less gloom like depth charges in a black abyss. “Dammit! Rocket, did you not _hear_ what I _just said_ about booby traps?”

“Can’t hear ya! In a vacuum!”

“Rocket, we’re using _earpieces…_ ”

The tiny figure sails between the glossy silver fuselage of a Kree knife-wing and a long string of what are either grenades or pearls the size of Peter’s fist; impossible to tell in the darkness. The sudden buzz of feedback informs Peter that Rocket’s earpiece has coincidentally malfunctioned. “A-hole,” he growls, hauling himself to straddle the lip of the crumbling opening. He hooks a light ball from his belt and tosses it as hard as he can. It pings off guns and jewels and barrels of pure Kalzorian whisky, illuminating everything in its path. And if it clips Rocket’s shoulder, sending him cartwheeling, then it’s by complete accident, Peter swears.

He waits until the light orb’s cruised through to what is either the other side of the asteroid or an obstructing wall. It bounces off it, and all the surrounding paraphernalia, its madcap pace slowing with each impact. Eventually it ricochets its way to a standstill: a tiny glow-worm speck that hovers far beyond Rocket’s bobbing helmet.

“Ain’t nothing exploded yet,” points out Kraglin.

Gamora squeezes his fingers. “We follow your lead, Starlord.” A beat. “Excepting Rocket.”

“Damn right,” comes a faint mutter, suggesting that the botching inter-suit relays aren’t quite so dysfunctional as Rocket would have them believe.

Peter thinks of Drax, watching from the rear porthole of the _Milano._ He wonders whether Yondu and Groot will be allowed to watch, or if Drax has sent them to the cockpit so they won’t be traumatized by the clear-cut visual of their protectors – no, their _guardians –_ being blown to smithereens. He swallows. And he dives forwards, into the dark crevasse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry it's been so long! I have... lots and lots of Kragdu stuff coming. There's a MASSIVE project with the awesomeawesomeawesome redrarebit, which I can't tell you too much about (yet!) and some little things I've been working on alone... ;) Stay tuned.**
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> **And y'know. Leave comments. :D**
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> ****


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which the good guys find a rock, and the bad guys find them.**

It’s as they’re exploring the bottom of the asteroid – or the top or the side, because directional indicators mean about as much in space as a chocolate dildo to a flame-haired Venusian; but Peter came in through a hole on what he thinks of as the asteroid’s upper side, and so he’s _calling_ it the bottom – that things get interesting. Which is not to say that they haven’t been ‘interesting’ the whole way. This place hosts enough curios to make the Collector swoon. But as for what the hoard says about Yondu personally, Peter doesn’t want to guess.

“Tasteless,” is Gamora’s only commentary, as they pass a statue of Thanos swooping his skeletal bride into a spine-snapping dip. She swims faster through the barren space, clicking her boots together to boost the tiny rocket jets like she’s trying to get out of Oz. Her hair, trapped in the heavy spacesuit, doesn’t flow, not when there’s no breeze. But it floats like jellyfish tendrils, buoyant but undisturbed by her forwards motion. She doesn’t look back.

Peter looks at Kraglin. Kraglin looks at Peter. Kraglin shrugs. “S’big and it’s gold. What more ‘taste’ do you need?”

In addition to the first orb Peter hurled, each Guardian – bar Rocket, who is keeping one bound ahead and who turns his nose up at ‘old-fangled Ravager tech’ – has a light sphere. Peter claims they’re to illuminate the dusky crannies of Yondu’s treasure trove so they don’t miss anything of potential value. In truth, while he hasn’t been scared of the dark since he left Earth (too many other things to be scared of back then, hungry space pirates chief among them) this lightless, airless grotto, with its miscellany of silhouetted shapes that seem to defy all sense of proportion and geometry when seen from the corner of the eye, brings back every one of the nightmares that used to wake him screaming as a kid. Nightmares of a distant planet, so far away and ancient that it barely remembered its own name. A planet that _lived,_ but lived alone, isolated in the utter darkness of deepspace…

Peter clicks his light sphere onto its highest setting and tries not to shiver too noticeably.

Kraglin tucks his sphere in the sling he’s been ferrying the cube around in while they’re offship. Peter’s glad he hasn’t brought the actual artifact along for the ride; if they dropped it here they’d never find it amid the clutter. And that’s without considering what would happen if tomorrow’s Centaurian were to rematerialize in a vacuum…

Do Centaurians pop? Yondu looks like a popper. 

Peter grimaces. Then winces as Rocket’s voice crackles to life, filling the inside of his helmet.

“Uh, guys? Might wanna come look at this…”

That bodes poorly. Peter’s mind conjures a half-dozen possibilities as he glides through the gloom, tracing Rocket’s beacon on the internal map relay of his space helmet when he fails to see the little guy amidst the clutter. Rocket, stuck with one foot on a landmine detonator, frozen in panic. Rocket half-encased in webbing, having flown directly into the nest of a vacuum-dwelling arachnid that’s been lurking in this pit since time immemorial… None of them are especially believable. Rocket has yet to step on a bomb that he can’t disarm, and if he’d been caught by a space-spider Peter’s fairly certain he’d be yelling for the rest of them to get away, not come join him in his sticky demise. Nevertheless, he’s careful as he rounds the Titan’s elbow. Thanos’s mighty gold fibula juts towards him like the accusing finger of a God. Kraglin and Gamora crowd after him, pushing to see what’s going on. When they make sense of the picture before them, their confusion is palpable.

“It’s a lump of rock.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, there’s more to it than that. There’s got to be.”

The reflective slab of glass protecting Kraglin’s face from the elements – or lack thereof – exudes the impression of an eyeroll. How it does this while being completely expressionless is a mystery. “Nah, Pete. Greenie’s right. It’s a lump of rock.” He floats forwards, thruster boots jetting in miniscule bursts. He calibrates the outputs with exacting care, walking on nothingness without overcompensating and spinning himself head-over-heels in a weightless loop-the-loop. As for the rock, he treats it to a hearty kick. The clang of his steel toecaps reverberates up his skinny body like a straw being shaken in the breeze. “Why’d ya call us over here, rodent? Thought you’d found somethin’ worthwhile.”

“Maybe if ya used your head, you’d see it might be!” Rocket mounts the rock, scrambling to its summit – which promptly swings around to the underside, toppled by the nudge of his landing. It’s like watching a hamster in a wheel. Not that Peter would ever share that comparison.

As it is, he digs his elbow between Kraglin’s ribs. “Hey. Enough with the ‘rodent’.”

Rocket spares him a surprised look. What expression accompanies it is impossible to tell; the spacemask remains blank, and he could be anywhere between flattered and furious. Peter likes to think it’s the former. Clearing his throat, he nods to Rocket. “Let’s hear him out. What’s so special about this?”

“Think about it. We’re in a big rock, but there ain’t no other little pebbles like this one floatin’ about. Don’t that strike you as odd?”

It’s true. Although Peter would hesitate at calling this lump of… whatever mineral it is, a ‘pebble’. It’s metallic, for one thing, and far too big. There’s Neolithic carving on its underside; spiky rune-like inscriptions that could as easily be primitive sketches as they could be language. When Rocket scampers over it, Peter feels like it should be making a sonorous sound, like nails being dropped on a tin tray. He doesn’t know _why_ he thinks this. After all, without any air to carry the vibrations the only noises are those transmitted to his ears via electrical signal. But there’s something there – a faint note of recognition, an answering twinge in his gut – that insists this rock is more than it appears.

Loose debris isn’t unusual, inside meteors. There’s outcrops everywhere: obelisks and menhirs and geometric natural columns that crowd of the asteroid like teeth in a polydontic mouth. But this isn’t of the same bubbly, igneous quality. It’s layered like slate. And shiny, light slithering off it clinquant like oil in a puddle. And suddenly, Peter knows where he’s seen it before.

“Get the grappling gear,” he says hoarsely, running reverent fingers over the rock’s sheer flank. “We’re taking this with us.”

Rocket scuttles closer, gloved claws scraping over the wire-thin striations that crisscross the surface of the rock like leylines on a map. “I called ya to look because I thought it was cool, not because I thought it was _valuable_.”

Peter can’t help it; he smiles. Not that they can see it, but he hopes at least some of his grin is injected into his voice as he says: “Oh, but it is. In fact, you might say it’s a Collector’s item.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, they leave the cave with several trunkloads of jewels, gold, and general ephemera, alongside a fossilized egg carved in a script Peter’s never seen, multiple barrels of Kalzorian whisky, enough Shi’ar med-gear to supplement the load they’ve been hired to haul to a backwater Empire planet in the system beyond this one, and a bunch of the most lethal looking weapons. (“Because we don’t want them falling into Ravager hands,” says Gamora, at the same time that Rocket claims “So we can build bigger ones.”) And, much to Peter’s delight, another crate of coffee.

They lug the loot out in stages. Peter and Rocket drag it from its initial resting place in the cavernous trophy room to a rough mid-point, while Gamora and Kraglin ferry it out the hole. They have to detonate a few minor charges – minor because they don’t know how much of this crap is flammable; _do you hear me, Rocket; I said no_ – to widen it enough to fit their last salvaged treasure: that thick slab of mineral that’d caught Peter’s eye.

He refuses to tell the others what it is, or why they’re bothering with it. “You’ll see,” is all he says.

The slab is as long as it’s broad, pancake-flat on the top and tumored with greasy grey pustules beneath. It looks metamorphic, organic: something crushed into shape by the unfathomable weight of the world. And, despite the others’ doubts, Peter knows it to be invaluable.

“Drax,” he says, into the comm. “Can you bring the ship around and come join us? It’s gonna take work to pack all this into storage, and we could use more muscle.”

“Mm, yeah, all that muscle,” mutters Kraglin. He’s set his comm to feed into Peter’s helmet, therefore the others don’t have to suffer his squeal when Peter punches him.

To be honest, muscle-mass doesn’t make any difference in zero gravity. But Peter’s still glad they called Drax. The loading time flies by when he’s working alongside his biggest teammate: shunting armful after armful of treasure through the _Milano_ ’s open hatch. They’ve crammed all the loose goods into pop-out forcefield capsules, which can contain anything from detonation putty to radioactive sources that would melt the face off most species. They’ll be more than enough to protect them for the journey to the nearest trading port. Or further afield, actually. Because Peter bets the Collector would love to rummage through this stuff. He’d also wager that like him, the Collector would see the value in that rock: the monochromatic sleet-grey ore that Rocket’s currently pushing into the central cabinspace, having run out of space in the hold. It leans on the table where the artifact floats, drenching it in its harsh orange light.

They’ve degravitized the ship’s interior for the time being, until everything is stowed. Peter can see a wondrous little blue face pushed against the cockpit window, Groot bobbing about besides. At least Drax had had the sense to lock the trapdoor before he left. If the way Yondu’s staring at the litter of asteroids and glittering streaks of comet-dust that swarm this sector is any indication, he’d hop out the hatch and into the void without caring for a spacesuit.

Peter remembers what it was like, the first time it truly sunk in that he, little Peter Quill, was _in space_. Perhaps he’s become jaded, after having lived here for so long. But whatever the cause, as of late he’s been taking all this – his helmet, his rocket boots, his ship – for granted. Seeing Yondu gazing at the burnished gleam of the dying star, face registering pure awe, brings back a buoyant rush of memories.

Years lift from Peter’s shoulders. Once upon a time, it’d been him who snorted mist all over the glass of the galleon’s vast viewscreen. He’d wound up punching it, frustrated that the window kept fogging over. His little clenched fists made about as much of a dent in crystal that was conditioned to withstand enemy fire, meteor peltings, and the odd cosmic radiation storm, as a lone M-ship’s weapons systems would’ve made off the _Eclector’s_ shields. Yondu laughed at him, and clipped him on the back of the head – gently, by his standards. He told him to take a helmet if he wanted to play outside, else he’d make good on his threats of turning Peter into the flagship figurehead.

Peter nurtures a smile. It grows with every minute he spends in Drax’s company. The pair of them use each other as leverage to push through the atmosphereless surrounds, clinging close and then shoving explosively away so that they can latch onto the nearest wall or ridged ceiling piece.

It’s physical and somatic, a violent rebound of body off body with no time to worry about accidentally sending the other careering into a wall, or an engine thruster, or out into the asteroid-speckled abyss. But Peter doesn’t care. He trusts Drax to know his own strength – and Peter’s. And he knows that the same goes in return.

The docking lights illuminate the tunnel, spilling out into the infinite black beyond. Peter and Drax are on outside duty: the farthest link on the production chain, tasked with dragging their loot into the ship’s outermost vestibule. They work diligently in silence, broken by huffs and grunts as they manipulate particularly unwieldy capsules. Rocket, Gamora and Kraglin handle haulage on the inside. They distribute the parcels into each of the _Milano’s_ three massive store rooms, dragging any overflow along the corridors to Kraglin’s attached ship.

As a result, none of them notice Yondu’s amazed expression turn to glee. He bangs on the windowpane and points over Peter’s head.

It’s not as if Peter can hear him. Peter can’t hear anything but Drax’s even breaths over the comm. But he glimpses the a balled blue fist beating glass. He nudges Drax. “Look. Kiddo’s waving.”

Yondu is. But not at them.

Besides him, looking as terrified as Yondu’s elated, Groot points over and over to the golden flame stitched to the jacket Peter left flung over his pilot’s chair.

“Oh shit,” Peter says, without turning around. There’s no point anyway. He doesn’t have a chance to draw his pistol before the traction beams lock on, and the _Milano_ \- treasure, crew, and all - is sucked into the Ravager galleon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments? :D Apologies if editing is shitty; I'm tired and stressed from work and in a bit of a writerly slump.**


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Drax does something stupid.**

“You,” whispers Peter to Drax in the fraught fifteen seconds before they’re deposited on the _Eclector’s_ musty floor, “have gotta promise me that you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

Drax’s back bulges. He twists midair as if he’s trying to fight the traction beam. It’s useless. Peter should know – he’d certainly flailed around enough the first time he got sucked up like this, screaming _mom_ and _grandpa_ and _mom help me, come back mom, please mom, please_ to the uncaring night.

“I promise no such thing,” he grits. And then, before Peter has time to cuss, the hangar forcefield engulfs them. They spill onto the Ravager ship, the _Milano_ and its passengers close behind.

 

* * *

 

“Well, lookie what we got here.” Taserface’s voice amalgamates fury and glee.

 _Shit,_ Peter thinks, squinting past the barrel at the man’s burnt face. _This is how I die._

“Me an’ the boys heard a load of medi-equipment would be passin’ through. But we didn’t think _you’d_ be ferryin’ it.” Taserface steps in, crushing Peter against the wall. Sour breath and beard follicles tickle his chin. “So what’chu got to say for yerself, boy? Daddy ain’t around to protect ya no more.”

“He,” Peter grits, ignoring the freezeburn from where the super-cooled Element Gun digs into his jaw, and twiddling the fingers of his upraised hands to signal to Drax that now is not the time to extract Taserface’s spine through the back of his neck. “Is not. My. Father.”

“Don’tchu mean ‘was not’?” Squashed between the crispy skin of browbone and nasal bridge, Taserface’s eyes are suspicious piggy raisins. “Yer the one that killed him, after all.”

So that’s what they think. Satisfied that Drax isn’t about to sign all of their death warrants, Peter focuses on the enemy at hand. He glowers at Taserface until the man snorts. Then cringes and cranes away. By the stars, has he been snacking on the putrefied meat supplies again?

Peter knows from long disciplinary hours toiling in the gallery (where Taserface’s butcher knives and bone saws swung above a blood-stained chopping board, chinking off one another like macabre windchimes) that the _Eclector’s_ chef – captain now – has difficulty chewing meat when it’s prepared the way most Ravagers like it: still on the juicy side of raw. His face cracks and leaks pus if he moves too much, hence the man’s near-constant scowl. But he could always pop his meat rations in the blender like any other civilized space pirate. No need to let it go mulchy of its own accord, stinking up the whole galley in the process.

Yondu’d had rules about that sort of thing. No rotten food outside of the designated decomposition zones, no M-ship maintenance on less than three hours of sleep, no filleting prisoners until you’d ascertained 100% that they had no bounty and weren’t any use as hostages; _no Horuz, not even if they look as tasty as the Terran (who still ain’t on the menu, in case ya were wonderin’)._ But Yondu’s not in charge anymore.

In fact, Yondu’s the furthest from ‘in charge’ he’s ever been. He’s currently bundled into the _Milano’s_ smuggler’s hold. Gamora, smart enough to realize what was happening the moment the tractor ray locked on, had nipped to the cabin and hauled the Guardians’ young wards to the safest place she could think of.

Unfortunately, the ‘safest’ does not equate ‘the most comfortable’. The smuggler’s hold is a soundproofed and detection-proofed meter-by-meter compartment, buried in the spaghetti-knot of fuel-pipes and radon extraction contraptions that stuff the _Milano’s_ central hub like oversized hamster tubes. Peter wonders whether the brat’s still screeching, like he had been when Gamora slammed the trapdoor on him. He must’ve realized by now that nobody’s coming.

“So kind of ya to lead us straight to the treasure,” Taserface continues, sneer tugging his brittle skin into a lopsided Venetian mask. “And ya even picked out the best bits, so my boys didn’t have t’do the work. Mighty generous, Quill.”

There’s a rumble of laughter. Red-clad men lean on the walls, crouch on beams, perch on the M-ships that’re strapped to the hangar ceiling high above. Every eye on the place is locked on Peter and his crew. And every eye is ravenous.

It’s like being watched by vultures, who wait for prey to fall before swooping down and starting the feeding frenzy. Even Kraglin, who’s been on the other side of many of these stand-offs, looks unnerved.

“Ain’t your boys, Tazie,” he says. Half-nut hauls him into a headlock – impressive, given most of his body-weight is hair. Cackling, he digs his energy-blade through Kraglin’s jumpsuit, searing a hole in leather and skin alike. Kraglin’s nostrils flare, eyes bulging. His face turns a spectacular shade of puce. “Ah – ah, fuck…”

“Don’t maim him too badly, Half-nut,” Taserface chides. “That’s a respectable Ravager ex-mate ya got there.”

Half-nut’s lips curl, revealing discolored gums and teeth that would look more at home in a piranha. “He’s a deserter, boss. Ain’t no better than Quill.”

“Hey, now that’s uncalled for –“ Taserface delivers a crack of the pistol butt. Peter’s browbone flares. Vision in one eye blurs out of focus. “Shit!”

“You, shut up. And Half-nut – unlike Quill here (who’ll be getting his dues; don’tchu worry) – Kraglin never stole from us.”

The smack of Half-nut’s spittle against Kraglin’s boot resounds in the silence. “They got a whole flarkin’ hold full of goods that rightfully belong to us, boss. Yondu were a Ravager when he died, so his crap’s Ravager too. Which means this?” He points at the _Milano,_ still and silent as a turkey in a trap. “Thas stealin’. An’ stealin’ from your own? That ain’t the Ravager way.”

Murmurs of assent reverberate through the crowd. If there’s one thing that can be said for Ravagers, they like their codes.

Taserface scowls. For a moment, he looks ready to turn his pistol on Half-nut instead. Peter holds his breath, hoping, praying… But then the instant passes, and Taserface bestows on his second not a blast of frigid ice, but a lunge that makes Half-nut scrabble backwards. He releases Kraglin – who slumps to his knees, panting, smoke curling from cauterized flesh. “What? Whaddid I do?”

“Ya don’t question me, Half-nut,” Taserface rumbles, baritone steel-edged and dangerous. “Remember? We talked about this. You don’t question me, an’ Gef don’t copy me, and we’re all gonna get along fine. Right Gef?”

Gef – bumbling, portly, in possession of a short-term memory that goldfish would shake their heads at – heaves himself to attention. “Yessir! We’re all gonna get along fine!”

Rocket sniggers. Then squares off against Scrote, who pops the safety off his flak-rifle and levels it at his head. “What? You got sumthing to say too, ugly?”

“If the rodent speaks one more word,” says Scrote mildly, caressing his trigger, “the rodent gets filled with flak. Does the rodent understand?”

The rodent does. But that doesn’t necessitate that the rodent has any self-preservation instinct. Peter jumps in before Rocket can open his mouth – because he’s gotten to understand these guys over the years they fought side by side. Though prolonged exposure to their company had never quite coagulated into _mutual fondness,_ he knows when Scrote’s not bluffing.

“If you fill him with flak, you can’t eat him,” he points out. He raises his hands when Taserface nudges him with the barrel again, and makes appealing eyes in Scrote’s direction. “I’m just thinking about your irritable bowel, Scrote. We all know how much ingested flakshot upsets your stomach.”

Great. Now there’s two guns on him. “The Terran will shut its face too,” Scrote snarls. Which is Taserface’s cue to posture in his direction instead.

“ _I_ give the orders, Scrote! _I_ say if Quill talks, or if he doesn’t! And right now…” He lets the words hang, silence building in the hangar like the Ravagers’ accumulating halitosis. “I say he’s silent. After we’ve searched his ship and taken back what’s ours, then we’ll interrogate them.”

“And gut them?” asks one hopeful. Taserface nods along.

“And gut them.”

Half-nut pouts. “But I like guts! They’re the best bits! Get all squishy an’ catch between yer teeth an’… Mmm.” He smacks his lips, which are wet and blubbery as a fish’s. Peter’s surprised he doesn’t drool.

“Okay, we only gut _some_ of them.” Taserface assesses the Guardians. His frown makes the most of what little leeway allowed by his tight-pinched scars, transmuting into a leer. “I vote leavin’ the girlie whole.”

Gamora’s peeled back her compactible helmet, although the rest of her bulky spacesuit is intact. Now, she lets a gloved hand rest on her sword pommel. None of the Ravagers have been brave enough to confiscate it. They’ve decided that the guns trained on her friends will suffice for restraints. “You may try,” is all she says.

Peter’s left impressed. Leave it to Gamora to make a Ravager captain shrink in his boots.

Not that she’d had the same effect on Yondu when he’d pulled them out the aether, before they teamed up to storm Ronan’s fortress and Peter stole from him and ran away _again,_ and saved the day but lost so much into the bargain. But this just goes to show that, try as he might, Taserface can never match up to his predecessor.

Peter wonders if he’d shoot him if he said so. In a rare burst of prudence, he decides not to push his luck.

“If I’m not allowed to talk, am I not allowed to tell you where the boobytraps are?” he asks.

“Boobytraps?” ask Taserface and Rocket, almost in synchrony. Peter gives the latter a kick.

“Yeah. The boobytraps my buddy here planted for the shits and giggles. But please, don’t take my word for it. Go open the smuggler panel and take a look for yourself.”

The sound of Taserface’s teeth gritting could be mistaken for two M-ships screeching past each other in a claustrophobic docking bay. “Don’t touch the smuggling hold,” he tells his men, pointing three of them up the gangway into the _Milano._ “At least, not until we’ve tortured the disarming codes outta these goons.”

Rocket returns the kick. “Thanks a lot, idiot,” he grunts.

The airlock seal that clamped Kraglin’s ship onto the _Milano_ has been broken. Now, Kraglin’s vessel hangs suspended by a crisscrossing harness of straps the breadth and thickness of Drax’s forearms, trussed up like a toddler in a bouncer. Those straps, attached to the dimmest quarter of the bunker ceiling, are also near-threadbare. Anyone sauntering along the walkway risks a swift and gory death, of the sort that cartoon characters miraculously evade when a grand piano falls from a twentieth story window. That’s where those lowest in the Ravager ranking hierarchy stow their ships. It takes the dismal, grotty aura of the place to a whole new level. Exhaust fumes hang in the air like midwinter mists and the chain pulley mechanisms that hoist the M-ships about in their cradles creak alarmingly, oxidized flakes speckling the floorgrills.

Even when Kraglin and Yondu argued, Kraglin had never been relegated there. He’d always retained his place by the captain’s Warbird. That spot is now conspicuously filled with Taserface’s own vessel: a slim and streamlined thing designed off a Kree knife-wing that looks too delicate to haul the new captain’s bulk. Half-nut’s rugged and patchwork cruiser chugs steadily besides. Its engine panels lay open: a mechanical vivisection, evidence of a maintenance gig that’d been abandoned once the workers scented blood on the air.

A Ravager’s M-ship is more than just a means of transport. It’s a status symbol. Kraglin’s craft, Spartan as it is, is befitting of a first mate: decked out with twin-turbo-thrust engines, a fully functioning lightspeed drive, and megawatt headlamps. To have it shoved to the bottom of the hangar to rust is all kinds of disrespectful.

But better it suffer that fate than that which awaits Peter’s _Milano._

“Y’know what,” says Taserface, halting his cronies with an upraised hand. “Les’ dredge out the treasure. Then we eject this bird into space, and blast the whole damn thing apart. In fact…” He moves closer, goading Peter to do something, anything, as he slips the foam earpads from around his neck. “I think I found us a fire-starter.”

Peter does nothing. Even though every muscle in his body screams with overtension, even though the blood vessels in his eyes threaten to burst with the intensity with which he stares at his music. _Mom’s music._ The tapedeck looks flimsy and oh-so-crushable in Taserface’s fist. He can’t say anything, do anything, or that fist might close…

Drax on the other hand, _roars._

“You will not take Quill’s box!” Pistols bristle on all sides. Peter shrinks, cringing in a desperate attempt to make himself smaller, less perceivable as a threat, and prays that Drax has the sense to do the same. But Taserace doesn’t give the execute order. Instead, he turns on Drax with a grotesque smile.

“An’ how you gonna stop me, big guy?”

After that, things get… messy.

Kraglin’s wise enough to stay on the floor. He covers his head with his hands, wriggles into the shadow of Half-nut’s lowered M-ship while Half-nut is distracted by Gamora’s whirlwind of blades and hair. He snatches a blood-stained pistol that skitters into reach, and settles to watch events unfold. After a while, Peter crawls down to join him.

“Hey,” he says, having to shout to be heard over the screams. “Planning to use that?”

Kraglin scowls at his gammy shoulder. The fried skin is peppered with scraps of burnt leather, melted into the flesh. It looks angry and gross and all kinds of painful, and he’ll be looking at a nasty infection unless they get it slathered in antiseptic gel soon. But he’s had worse. “I can try,” he says. Peter nods. He hunkers down beside him, letting Kraglin lean on him for support as he clicks the elemental setting to _Lightning_ and steadies the pistol in his non-dominant hand.

“I mean, I can always…”

“I got this.”

But his aim dodders unnervingly to the roof. Peter can feel him shaking, as adrenaline peaks and shock starts to set in. He wets his lips. “You just gotta say, man. Ain’t gonna think any less of you. It’s just that we’re outnumbered, and not even Gamora and Drax can hold off the whole damn Ravager army. I say we need a distraction, and then we scarper. So just gimme the gun, and –“

“Like I said,” says Kraglin, lips bloodless and trembling as he aims at the overhead lights. “I got this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hello, my pretties! Leave a comment, if you've made it this far? x**


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the Ravagers board the _Milano_ and find more than they bargained for.**

Bang.

Crash.

Crackle.

Darkness.

“Flark.”

That’s all Peter needs to hear. He snaps on his spacemask, night-vision illuminating the hangar in phosphorescent green. “C’mon guys!” he bellows into the commlink, unfolding from beneath the M-ship. He hauls Kraglin along with him. The man gripes as his injured shoulder’s jostled, but he doesn’t actively fight Peter as he hustles him past the _Milano’s_ docking ramp. Gamora’s vision has already recalibrated, mechanics whirring behind her browbone, and the glow from Kraglin’s pistol reflects from the cat-like full moons of Rocket’s eyes. Meanwhile the Ravagers, half-blinded by the flash, stagger through the pitch-black like extras in a zombie B-movie. But they won’t stay disorientated for long. “We gotta knock out the forcefield generators! There’s one at each end of the Hangar entrance – me and Kraglin know where they are. So he, Rocket and Gamora can take one. Drax, we’ve got the other. Let’s split this joint!”

“I do not smoke,” comes Drax’s thundering boom. He’s at the far corner of the battlefield, paused halfway through filleting some Ravager nobody. The poor kid whinges, impaled on a pair of curved kukris, but his gurgles cease when Drax yanks them out. He wipes the blades twice on the guy’s jacket before he slumps to the ground – efficient and swift, front and back. Then kicks the body to one side and stands like a primal wargod, smeared with gore to his elbows.

He looks ferocious and feral and all kinds of beautiful.

Peter could hug him. Or kiss him. Or both. He’ll have ample time to decide which once they’re back on the _Milano,_ sailing through the stars unfettered by the Ravagers’ traction beam.

“Metaphor!” he yells as he hurtles past, aiming for the generator by the door. “Means to get the hell outta Dodge!”

“Where is Dodge?”

“Here, ya idjit! Here is Dodge!” Steadied by Gamora, Kraglin breaks into a staggering run, unfazed by the absence of light. He knows the layout of the _Eclector_ better than the callouses on his own palms. Injured or not, he won’t have a problem guiding Gamora and Rocket to their destination.

Meanwhile, Peter grips a firm, familiar hand. “And we’re leaving, alright. But first, I need you to stab some electrical relays. Preferably with something non-conductive.”

The faint gleam of the _Milano’s_ headlamps, never quite depowered in the frenzy of their abduction, illuminate each of Drax’s teeth when he grins. “Lead the way, Starlord,” he says.

 

* * *

 

Quill’s ship stinks.

Not of sweat, or of blood, or even that crusty gym-sock smell that lingers in the communal areas on the _Eclector_ Bridge. Those are all good smells. Masculine smells. _Ravager_ smells. Quill’s ship smells of cooked meals and coffee-substitute and that green woman’s shampoo. It’s all kinds of disgusting.

Scrote, one of the trio ordered into its bowels by his new captain, pauses at the sound of shots from outside. So the Guardians acted up. He can’t say he’s surprised. For a moment, he considers heading outside so he can watch Quill’s demise first-hand. After all, he – like so many of the self-proclaimed ‘least sentimental band of pirates to storm the starways’ – have been waiting on this moment for quite some time.

But Scrote is nothing if not dependable. He’s been given a job, and he’s going to do it. At the end of the day, meat is all any critter is, and meat is what the Guardians will become. He’ll savor the victory once their carcasses are strung from hooks in the galley, drippage seeping through the grills into the bubbling soup vats beneath.

He shoulders his flak-rifle. Clamps his sealable nostrils shut – his gills flex open in synchrony, filtering the air without having to worry about that offensive, faintly saccharine tang of haircare products and home cooking. He walks deeper into the depowered cavern.

When he sees the glow, his first thought is _treasure._ Something nabbed from the core of Yondu’s asteroid. So you can imagine his disappointment when it turns out to be a rock.

…Or not. Because the light isn’t coming from that, is it? It’s streaming from the box, which sits atop the table, enticing as a box of chocolates to a greedy toddler. The glow seems to reach out tendrils. _Touch me,_ it says. _Hold me._

But Scrote ain’t stupid. At least, he’s smart enough to know that in the greater scheme of things, he’s very, very stupid, which amounts to much the same thing. If there’s a mysterious glowing object that every instinct in his body yearns to touch, logic dictates that touching it is a Bad Idea.

Scrote’s species is one of the oldest in the galaxy. They’ve been footsoldiers in every one of the intergalactic wars that catapulted Andromeda through mass-industrialization, while the surrounding galaxies in the cluster were booted back to the dark ages. The only thing stronger than their sense of duty is their cultural instincts. And right now, Scrote’s are telling him that whatever this object is, he ought to take it and make use of it, fulfil a purpose so ancient its details have been forgotten, although the instinct lingers on in his bones.

Scrote keeps his sights trained on the cube as he stalks closer, padding soundlessly over the patchwork panelling of the M-ship floor. What the hell have the Guardians brought onto their ship? And why is there a slab of stone, half as wide as he is tall, leaning against the creaking table below it? It’s like an altar to a pagan God, and Scrote is ready to worship. Breath held, his bootcaps brush the rock…

…At which point Narblik stumbles through the doorway, almost catching his head on the low-slung beam. “Sir, y’know how Tazie said not to open the smuggler’s hatch?”

Scrote’s hand has extended without his permission. He glares at it until certain it’s not going to try any such stunt again, then turns on his subordinate. “It’s ‘Captain Taserface’ to you. And what have you done?”

Narblik doesn’t look too scorched around the edges, so if there was a booby trap it wasn’t one of the igniting sort. He twiddles his pistol round and around in blunt-clawed fingers. “It weren’t me! Y’know Wretch ain’t got the best hearing; he must’ve thought Tazie – uh, _Cap’n Tazie_ …” Scrote waives it; close enough. “…Said to _open_ the smuggler hatch, not to leave it closed for the bomb disposal crew…”

Scrote brings Narblik to a halt with a sharp gesture, flak gun barrel swinging in his direction. “What happened,” he growls. Narblik still looks to be in shock. There is, Scrote notes, a scratch on his cheek, and what looks to be a bite mark on his hand. He groans. “Don’t say the rodent procreated.”

Narblik’s skintone is dark, almost melding into the deep wells of shadow that pocket the _Milano’s_ unlit interior. But at Scrote’s words, the colour drains, leaving him almost as whey-faced as his superior. “Worse,” he says faintly. “It weren’t _him_ who pro-cree-ay... Er, had brats. It were the boss.”

Scrote frowns. To his knowledge, Taserface leaves bastards in every port. Ravagers care little for hierarchies built on blood rather than skill – better have a captain who sows his seed liberally than one who names an established heir. Especially if that heir is a snot-nosed Terran brat, and especially if that captain doesn’t expect his crew to do the acceptable thing and devour said snot-nosed Terran brat before he can become a threat. Narblik must see Scrote's confusion, because he wrings his pistol perplexedly and shifts his not inconsiderable weight from one foot to the other, the floor grates groaning from the onslaught.

“Not Cap’n Tazie, Scrote sir. Cap’n Yondu.”

Scrote’s throat closes. His gills flap uselessly, before he forces himself to unclench his trachea and let them pull air once more. Of course. That frutarking smug blue jackass couldn’t _just_ leave his crew with clues for a lousy treasure hunt, which took them to the most depopulated corner of the quadrant, far from the warm fuzzy lights of the booze-and-whore-houses that jostle for space around the Galactic Core. He has to haunt them from beyond the grave too.

Well, Scrote’s not having it. If he can’t kill the first of Yondu’s children – who, if the dying sounds of the battle are any indication, is being dissected by Taserface as they speak – he deserves first dibs on the second.

“Right,” he says, hoarse and low. The flak rifle is mounted atop his shoulder once again. “Where is he.”

 

* * *

 

Yt’zl is a warrior of the Zatoan tribe, and he does not know fear.

That funny tightness in his head, like everything’s on the cusp of blurring out of focus? Completely unrelated. He’s just a bit dazed from where he whacked it on the underside of the hatch the Green One had pushed him and the Groot through. The Chupka-fast patter of his heart? That’s adrenaline, plain and simple. The shooting pain in his wrist, from where the Big Dark Redcoat had lashed him to a creaking radiator pipe, using a cuff that channels lightning bolts to zap him whenever he moves? Just a bodily reaction. Nowhere in that equation is _fear_.

Now he’s out of the smuggler hold – it blotted his senses even more than the rest of this strange, lifeless metal box in which his friends reside – he can taste the faint jitter of hatred emanating from the two men opposite him. Every time he tries to ask them what he’s done to deserve it, they bark and growl in a way that suggests it’s safer for him to keep his mouth shut. Aqxa always says that Yt’zl has about as much self-preservation instinct as a Chupka – one of those funny little rodents who run towards the fires of civilization rather than away from it, and are more often than not roasted for their efforts. But in this instance, Yt’zl proves her wrong. He keeps his mouth shut and his eyes open. He watches and he listens, and he tries to _learn._

They both brandish funny tubes. The sleek metal pipes are bulked out by textured blocks, much as their bodies are bulked out by the overlay of leather and shoulderplate. The hides are cultured far beyond anything on Yt’zl’s world – although Yt’zl is starting to understand that wherever this dreamland is, it’s as far removed from his own home as Anthos’ Mountains are from the Heathen Plains. A glow streams from deep inside the tubes, as if Yt’zl is looking down a long tunnel that opens into a magma pit. They’re holding them out to him, almost in invitation. It’d be rude not to accept. And they’ve only cuffed one of his hands…

It’s almost like they _want_ him to take them.

Yt’zl grabs the nearest. He wants to put his face against that hole and get a closer look at the light – but the man misunderstands. He must think he’s trying to steal it, because he growls and wrenches the tube away. He straps it to his back and clenches his wood-colored fists instead. His hand’s gone all puffy, from where Yt’zl bit him.

Yt’zl, doing his best not to flinch (because Aqxa and Oroqua always say that the Zatoan Uxchth’q clan are the bravest of the brave) wonders if this man is like the Pink One, who demands he apologize for every mediocre crime, from stealing sweets to tackling his talking pet.

“Flark,” he says – because that’s the only one of the space-people’s words he can say without feeling like his vocal cords have been put through a mangle. Plus, it usually gets a reaction.

The pair blink at each other. They jabber something in their incomprehensible dialects. To Yt’zl’s ears their languages don’t just sound nonsensical, but incompatible – the white man with the pointy face ridges speaks airily, aspirating through his gills; whereas his taller, darker companion has a more nasal tone and uses too many vowels. But it’s no different to his friends. The Pink Man (aka: the tightest hugger) sounds like he’s singing at times, even when he isn’t; whereas the Big One (aka: the cosiest hugger) is entirely monotonous yet booming, like every word is spat into a subterranean cavern and left to gather echoes before it’s released from his throat. The pet rat (the funnest to hug) doesn’t make animal sounds, but instead seems to wag his little muzzle in time with the cadence of speech, and the Green One rarely talks, but when she does it’s sharp and direct as the whistle that heralds a clean kill. The Skinny Hairy Guy (the boniest hugger, whose emotions go all haywire when he looks at Yt’zl for too long) sounds worst: all drawly vowels and harsh crackles of consonants.

And then, of course, there is The Groot.

 

* * *

 

“Didn’t Taserface send three of us?” Scrote asks. He doesn’t bother squinting through his sights, not at such close range. The kid blinks at his gun with more interest than fear. That’ll change. But Scrote would rather have an uninterrupted session with him. He wants to flay the skin from his little blue bones without his companions bitching when stray splashes stain their leathers – which means packing off Narblik and his fellow low-ranker down the gangway, out into the fray. “Where’s Wretch?”

Narblik frowns. “Big bug skittered out the smuggler bay after he let the brat out,” he says, clipped and to the point for once. He gestures to the dark doorway with his pistol. “Last I saw, Wretch said he was gonna eat it.”

Scrote would rather sink his fangs into the little blue boy, who’s trying his utmost to posture. Cocky brat. Apparently he takes after his father. Oh, killing him will be a delight… “Well, go fetch him then,” he says, reholstering his gun and instead slipping a wickedly curved meathook from the sheathe on his back. “Tell him he can snack later. For now, I want ya both back with Captain Taserface.”

“I am Groot.”

Narblik, caught mid-affirmation, frowns. “What?”

“I _said,_ I want ya both back with Captain Tas –“

“Naw. Not that.”

“I am Groot.”

Scrote swallows. “Weren’t there five Guardians?” he asks.

Narblik shakes his head, but backs up, closer to Scrote, plasma pistols akimbo. “Ya really think we’d’ve missed the tree? He’s even bigger than the Destroyer. Anyway, he died on Xandar, last I heard –“

“I am Groot.”

“Then what the flark is that?” Scrote swings his hook in a wide arc, encompassing the overhead ventilation grills. Pattering footsteps jangle across loose steel. They belong to either a spaceroach colony, or one very fast-moving miniature tree. “Narblik, fill the ceiling with plasma. I think Quill’s got an infestat – blegh!”

The ‘blegh’ is due to the branch that erupts from the grill like a geyser from a hole, slamming him into the wall. “I am Groot!” yells the tree again, his tinny voice more laughable than menacing. But the discordance between that timbre and his actions, as he pops off the grate and binds Narblik’s ankles with roots, hoisting him upside down into the air, only makes the situation more bewildering.

“By the stars! What the frutarkin’ flark?” Narblik swings like a rotund and ugly pendulum. He squeezes off a shot, clipping bark from the edge of the bough that’s fastened around his shin-guards. The creepers infiltrating his boot flail and retreat, curling tight to their source branch like the tentacles of a stung jellyfish. But Groot only snarls. His miniature jacket is split down the seams by the erupting sprout.

“I… Am… Groot,” he hisses. Then he slams Narblik headfirst onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments make the muses churn.**


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which there are concussions and conversations and a very overdue kiss.**

Concussion makes itself known in a myriad of ways, some more subtle than others. There’s the blurred vision, the spinning head, the garbled speech, the hammering heart and the clammy pallor to the skin. Narblik, slammed with every symptom at once, is far too dazed to realize what ails him.

His ankles are tied by what look to be vines and feel to be barbed wire. His attackers – both of them significantly his smaller – monopolize the forefront of his vision, as do the slumped forms of Scrote and Wretch, made indistinguishable by the sheer volume of foliage trussing them together. But, Narblik notices, eyelids drooping at half-mast, they aren’t alone.

“Hey Quill,” he slurs. He pushes himself upwards – or at least he thinks it’s upwards. If the inner ear looks remarkably like a snail, then Narblik’s have popped their feelers back into their shells in self-preservation. They’re about as much use to him as the filleted remnants of his gun, which lays in a magpie’s nest of varnished metal. The plasma core throbs. It gives his assailants a red patina, as if they’ve been dunked in waxy varnish.

“I am Groot,” says Groot, sat cross-legged on Rocket’s shoulder. He holds up one tiny bark-crusted hand for Yondu to high-five.

 

* * *

 

“What do we do with them?” Gamora asks.

They fled the Ravager stronghold. This sounds less impressive than it was – getting out of that hellhole took every shred of Gamora, Peter, and Rocket’s combined ingenuity. Drax and Kraglin only deserve honorable mentions; their part in the escape was relegated to Kraglin collapsing as the nicked artery in his shoulder gave up the majority of his blood, and Drax dragging him aboard and hooking him up to the ship-controlled medisystem before he bled out. Not that they hadn't played vital parts. Without Drax wrenching the power hub out of the shield generator, or that first shot of Kraglin’s, they’d never have made it.

After Kraglin’s charge fried the solar panels, the hangar was lit only by the pops of plasma pistols and the _Milano’s_ half-cranked headlamps. Say what you might about Taserface, but he isn't entirely stupid. He knew they’d circle back there eventually. Sure, there were a dozen other primed ships in the hangar. But Peter has always been, in the Ravagers’ eyes, weirdly attached to _stuff._

Like Captain, like Terran, as Peter had once heard Wretch grumble. Sure, space pirates make a living out of liberating items of value from their rightful owners – but those items of value are very rarely kept. Commerce is the name of the game. It's an unending, self-devouring system of inputs and outputs: if something is stolen, it then has to be sold – either back to its original owners at hugely inflated prices, or on to some intermediary. But what to do with that money? Money is only useful insomuch as it can be _used._ Credits, units, universal chits: they are states of transit, not the final product. What's the point in having money if you can’t spend it?

But to compound the problem, Ravagers don’t believe in posterity. No trite sentimental tat for them (with the exception of Yondu, whose collection of dashboard trinkets will have been ejected by now.) The only things a Ravager cares about are the drip of credits into their accounts, the glug of spirits into their bellies, the grind of worthless hostages through the galley’s industrial-sized sausage-maker, and (this only grudgingly) the state of their leathers. It’s frivolous and tangible pleasures, or no pleasures at all. To them, caring about an inanimate object like a ship, a Walkman, or a troll doll makes you weak. But Peter knows differently. That capacity to _care_ (to ‘give a shit’, as he’d said while convincing a gang of mismatched felons to save the Galaxy and quite possibly die in the process) is what gives him strength.

But Taserface can't – won't – comprehend such things. And so he stations his men around the _Milano,_ gives them orders to shoot on sight, and waits.

For some reason, he's surprised when Peter’s gang plow through them, their will to fight compounded by their determination to reclaim what's theirs.

In the aftermath the Guardians are bloody and bruised. Their triumph overshadows the twinges from their wounds. The exception is Kraglin, flat-out on the deck above and dead to the world – only temporarily, Peter hopes. He has yet to gloat that his plan worked, and Kraglin wouldn’t miss that opportunity, not for Lady Thanatos herself.

Drax is on IV-duty, holding a baggie of blood-substitute aloft. Peter’d barely snatched a moment alone with him, as Gamora sprinted for the cockpit and Rocket ran off in search of Groot. It’d been long enough for a single kiss – their first ever.

Peter’s still reeling from it as he kits his old tormenters-slash-teammates out with spare space helmets and helps Gamora bundle them towards the airlock. He’d wanted to savor every sensation, every buzzing nerve ending, which reported details from the softness of Drax’s lips – all the more exaggerated in comparison with his shell-smooth skin and scarified tattoos – to the way his non-IV-bag-clutching hand cupped Peter’s stubbled jaw with such intimate gentleness Peter almost forgot that he was supposed to be closing the hatch for launch.

But while it had all been over far too fast, the memory is potent enough to make Peter’s heart pound and his cheeks flush, even half an hour later. Gamora assesses his moon-eyes, punching in the open sequence. Behind her, the _whoosh_ of ejecting air and Ravager cedes to the eternal silence of the vacuum.

“Peter,” she says, cranking the closing handle once their attempted saboteurs are bobbing at a safe distance, buffeted in cartwheels by the out-thrust of the _Milano’s_ engines. “Have you been hit on the head? You look like you’re suffering from a concussion.”

Peter molds his dopy smile into something more suitable for the leader of a band of space heroes. “I’m fine,” he promises. “Hale, healthy, sane, the whole lot.” Her crooked eyebrow indicates that she doubts at least one of those adjectives. But she’s smiling too – small and tight but unmistakable. It seems the elation of a good battle is exactly what she needs.

“Taserface will empty the rest of Yondu’s cache,” she says, back to business. “But he'll know we've got prime pickings. I’ll set a course to some of the lesser-known trading outposts.”

Peter nods. He can always trust Gamora to keep him grounded; her professional demeanor scolds the butterflies in his stomach back into their cocoons. His lips are still tingling, sensitized seemingly indefinitely by the press of Drax’s against them; the soft, wet sweep of a grey-green tongue. A tongue Peter wouldn’t say ‘no’ to having pressed to other parts of his anatomy… But if it’s a poor time to be swooning over a simple kiss, sprouting a boner would be the height of impropriety. “Not Knowhere. At least, not for more than a fuel stop. That block’s crawling with Ravager eye and ears.”

“Agreed.” Gamora doesn’t march away immediately though. She lingers at Peter’s elbow, watching the bob of the ever-diminishing Ravagers until they’re indistinguishable from the spangled space-dust that coats the surrounding asteroids in glitter when the starlight catches them at the right angle. Peter doubts they’re the real focus of her attention though. He nudges her.

“What?”

Gamora takes a deep breath. “Do you think he hates me now?”

It takes a while for Peter to work out who she’s talking about. And a while longer to dampen down on his initial response of _why would you care?_ Instead, he coaxes his expression into something understanding, and – even if his mind’s still milling with a thousand questions – answers hers first. “What, because you shoved him in the smuggler hatch? You saved his life, Gamora. Groot’s too.”

“But they don't _know_ that.” If Gamora were more of a nervous disposition, she’d be gnawing her fingernails. “I was far rougher with them than I should’ve been. I may have hurt them by accident. I usually control my strength, but –“

“But it was an emergency situation, and you had to think fast,” Peter finishes for her. “You did what you had to do, Gamora. I trust that.” And he slips his hand around her slim green one to prove it. It’s limp and unresponsive in his grip, too bony to be ergonomic. Gamora’s studying her boots again – which never bodes well. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was thinking of… of the past.” She sounds like she’s going to leave that dangling. But then something changes inside her: a whipcrack decision, a slice of the steely determination that makes her such a formidable opponent in battle and an excellent friend. “Of my sister who-never-was.”

Peter may be the most empathetic on his team, but that doesn’t mean he’s qualified to talk his way through hazardous subjects like this one. He awkwardly squeezes the skinny fingers, the cybernetic friction-plates on Gamora’s palms biting into his skin. Thanos’s children aren’t designed for hand-holding. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to make an effort. “He’ll forgive you,” he says. “Heck, he’s probably already forgotten. It’s been a busy day for him after all.”

Gamora sighs. She has yet to extract herself from Peter’s grip. There was a time when Peter would take that as a signal that she wanted more – more contact, and of a decidedly less platonic nature. But he sees this for what it is. An intimate moment between friends. His bond with Gamora right now is just as vital to both of their happiness as it would be had their relationship taken a turn for the sexual. And, Peter realizes, he _is_ happy. He’s happy that Gamora is confident with reciprocating friendly affection. He’s happy that she’s accepted Yondu into their ragtag little family. And he’s happy that he’s content with this simple touch, this interlacing of fingers and hearts, where once he’d have felt unfulfilled if he’d failed to woo her into his bed.

“I wish I could tell him that I hadn’t meant to hurt him,” she says, laying her head on Peter’s shoulder. Peter rests his other hand over it: a comforting weight.

“Don’t worry. His vocabulary’s gotta expand past ‘flark’ at some point.”

 

* * *

 

“So?” asks Rocket, rapping the rock with his fist – then wincing and shaking it out. Serves him right. For a genius, the little guy can be remarkably stupid. “What’s the big deal with this then?”

“You mean you haven’t worked it out yet?” Peter teases. He holds up his hands when Rocket snarls. “Okay, okay. How about I _show_ you. Kid? Yondu?”

Yondu’s getting better at responding. He looks up when Peter says his name. The artifact had performed its usual trick while they were lifting off – no one’d been keeping track of the time, and they hadn’t managed to say goodbye, but if the way Yondu’d hugged them when he saw them again (with the exception of Rocket, to all of their relief) he doesn’t hold it against them.

Peter points to the centerpiece. The table lists from the weight of the boulder propped against it, while the cube on top blinks its usual morse signal, in time with Yondu’s pulse. “What d’you make of your present, kiddo?”

When he’d first seen the rock, Yondu had ducked his head in that same half-bow he’d inclined at Rocket when Peter made him apologize – only with markedly more respect. His crest flared over the vertebrae at the back of his neck, skin stretching between the bone-struts like the webs between a frog’s fingers. “Anthos tua’te,” he’d said.

He still glances at the rock, further confirming Peter’s suspicions. But it’s not his focus. Until Peter caught his attention, he’d been busy pawing at Drax, pointing at the spaces around the edges of the room with eyes which, while smaller in his face, are just as skilled in the puppy-dog look at twelve as they were at four. It takes Peter several minutes – and multiple charades, as Yondu teeters about on his tiptoes, sucks in his cheeks and his tummy, and points at the Ravager patch on Peter’s shoulder – to realize that he’s asking after Kraglin. Having no idea how to explain that Kraglin’s on bed-rest for at least the rest of Yondu’s twenty-four hours, and won’t want visitors, Peter answers with shrugs and promises that he can see him soon, none of which Yondu understands. His frustration is palpable. Yondu’s old enough to want more complex conversation, but his attempts to communicate are about as comprehensible as Peter’s reassurances that Kraglin’s fine, Kraglin’s alive, Kraglin’s just _really tired and doesn’t need you running into his room and bouncing on his damn bed, kid, you get me?_

Still, according to Kraglin’s calculation, Yondu’ll start speaking Xandarian over the next couple of days. Peter’s looking forwards to it. He’s average height, as twelve year olds go – if you discount the crest poking from his scalp, which elevates him by another six inches. Peter can’t help but stare at it. It’s noticeably more prominent than it had been before. Taller. Sturdier looking. A brighter red, less cockrel-wattle and more postbox. Peter can still see the bones – thin filaments that sprout from each of Yondu’s vertebrae. But the skin over them is a little thicker, a little tougher. It doesn’t like it could be wrenched off by a too-strong breeze.

Peter wonders whether this is a Centaurian puberty thing. But that only leads to the thought of Centaurian sex, and _that_ only to his many repressed memories of accidental eavesdropping, when his captain and first mate had taken a night off to be in each other’s company…

Blegh. He smooths his expression and forces himself to look at Yondu head-on. He’s older than Peter was when he was abducted, but seems very sheltered in comparison. There’s a niggle of that old aggravation creeping back in, emotions that Peter had hoped to eradicate. They jabber away in the back of his brain and insist that the man who ruined his life at eight doesn’t deserve a happy childhood. But Peter quashes them down.

“Why don’t you try a whistle, kid?” he asks. Points at the rock and demonstrates. His own efforts are weedy in comparison – Yondu always guffawed whenever Peter tried to emulate his his whistles, like he was listening to an ape attempting speech. It’d rather put Peter off learning. Being laughed at by this Yondu, who cracks a giggle and cheeps back at him, isn’t nearly so awful. Especially as the rock seeps incandescent ruby, light spilling from invisible pores scattered across its surface.

“Holy flark,” Rocket breathes. “Don’t tell me thas –“

“Yaka!” squeals Yondu. He whistles again – louder, cleaner, a long sweet note that’s almost as steady as those he can hold as an adult. The pitch is a little piercing, but Peter’s eardrums can take it. He shares a wry half-grin with Drax.

“Looks like our little boy’s growing up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Eeeey I hope you're all ready to cry next chapter! >:D**


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu grows up.**

‘Growing up’ is not a quantifiable progress. It cannot be calculated through years alone, or as the more logical-minded assume, by height.

Instead, it is finely-tuned and individual, spurred by nurture as much as nature. And for most, it happens in spurts. Peter had grown up at eight, when his mother’s echocardiogram settled into a drawn-out beep. He’d grown some more when he stumbled across the hospital lawn only to be dragged into the underbelly of a lurking M-ship. An airborn arrow danced around his throat, and a man with blue skin and the nastiest teeth Peter’d seen on anyone outside of old Western movies held him down when he fought and injected a subskin translator behind his ear, so Peter could relish the inventiveness of his threats properly.

His whistle melded into the noise of mom’s monitors. It was an endless drone, a high-pitched tinnitus that drowned out all other sound: from the blue man arguing with his crew over whether the brat should be delivered to their client or the stewpot, to Peter’s own desolate sobs as Earth shrunk to a glossy blue egg, then a marble, then a punctuation mark, then nothing.

Peter’s ascent into adulthood continued in snatched handfuls of experiences. Picking his first pocket; flying his first solo M-ship; screwing his first conquest; killing his first enemy – by complete accident at the time, not that he’d mentioned that when Yondu congratulated him. The memories are so vivid that recalling them is like living them all over again.

He remembers dipping index and middle into his captain’s trenchcoat pocket while Peter was sauntering behind him on the way to mess, and almost giving himself up with his victorious whoop when he extracted the lint-smeared trolldoll without Yondu noticing. He remembers settling his hands around the thrumming joysticks while the dogfight raged on above and below, and spinning his ship out into the void while he struggled to see over the high dashboard. He remembers the slick wetness between the thighs of a dockgirl at one of their frequent trading ports – he’d never asked for her name, but he swears he’ll never forget the look on her face when he asked her to show him how to make her cum. He definitely remembers the kickback from the pistol, which had jarred through his reedy Terran arms. He cried out almost as much from the shock as from seeing blood, which arced from the Nova officer’s head in a high parabola, before he crumpled to the ground. All these memories are compounded together in his adult self: irregular shards that slot together in a jumbled yet holistic order. This is Peter. This is what makes him who he is.

He still discovers the occasional fragment every now and then, dropped down the back of his proverbial sofa. Fitting them into the jigsaw of his adult self is an ongoing process – but while the evolution is slow, Peter’s proud of how far he’s come. He’d learnt to give a shit when the Guardians saved Xandar. As Drax traced whorls over the ball of his thumb while the others slept, he’d learnt that while sleeping your way around half the galaxy is fun, it isn’t fulfilling for him as an individual. And he’d discovered that while it’s okay to hate the people who hurt you, it’s okay to forgive as well, when he’d shared his music with the small blue alien on his lap.

Yondu doesn’t have the luxury of a gradual journey to maturity. One day he’s bobbing about the ship, a bright and cheerful twelve-year-old, enthusiastically throwing himself into any chore he’s pointed towards, mood dampened only by Kraglin’s absence.

The next, he’s a man.

It’s all in the eyes, Peter realizes as the thirteen-year-old backs into the corner, hissing at them with a vehemence they’ve never encountered, even on Yondu’s stroppiest days. Those eyes know hate. They broadcast it too, where they’d never done so before. And all of it is aimed at the Guardians.

“Get from me away,” snarls Yondu in butchered Xandarian. The words sound _painful,_ like they’re being wrenched from his throat with pliers. He has yet to hit his growth spurt, and given the amount of weight he’s lost since the last time they saw him – going from a healthy, robust-looking child to a gaunt blue creature whose ribcage is more pronounced than Kraglin’s – it may well be stunted if he’s not fed a good meal soon. Peter could make that happen. But first Yondu has to trust that they’re not his enemy.

“It’s us,” he tries, stepping forwards with his palms out to show he means no harm. Yondu growls, clicking like a rattlesnake. He presses into his corner, his own hands upraised – but not on the offensive, Peter notices, to his perturbation. Yondu’s not attacking. Just trying to fend them off, make them leave him alone, to… What? Lick his wounds in private?

Because there are wounds, and plenty of them. It looks like he’s been backhanded by someone a lot bigger than himself: one eye’s a slitted squint, pinched shut by the bruising that blotches the entire left half of his face purple. And there’s other bumps and scrapes too, coating his chest and obscuring the thirteen tattooed blue spirals that Yondu’s been acquiring, one for each year. None look severe enough to require a stint with Kraglin in the medroom. But the sheer quantity, and what they insinuate, makes Peter’s chest contract. Yondu’s holding his arms protectively across his torso. But Peter’d caught a glimpse of at least one bootprint when the boy came through the artifact, before he screeched and tried to claw out Peter’s eyes. And all of this is discounting the hole sawn in his crest, making way for a heavy metal collar…

Now, Yondu presses his skinny limbs in close, hunching to make himself a smaller target. His glare is as furious as it’s fragile. “Liar,” he spits. “All of ya. Lie-yahs. You with dem. You with da _mons-tars_ …” His accent’s ridiculous. Far thicker than it is an adult, like each word is dipped in molasses and then given a good rolling in gravel. Peter would laugh, if the circumstances weren’t so dire.

“Yondu,” he says, gentling his voice. “We’re not monsters. I promise. We’re your friends.”

Yondu, having winced at the sound of his own name, sinks closer to the floor as Peter approaches. When Peter kneels besides him, not quite daring to reach out – Yondu’ll bite him, or worse, flinch away – he curls into a stiff ball, bony patellae digging into his chest. His loincloth’s gone, Peter notices, replaced by another, plainer version. No gold trim, only dirt and tatters. His fingernails threaten to shred his forearms; he digs them in like he doesn’t feel the pain. “Why you call me dat den?” he asks. “Dat ain’t my name.”

Peter’s taken aback. “What?”

“Ain’t. My. Name.” There’s a tremulous inhale between each word. No dampness on Yondu’s cheeks yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

“Peter,” says Gamora. Yondu quivers when her shadow falls over him, but she only touches Peter, slim hand clamping his shoulder with alarming strength. She hauls him upright, frogmarching him back several paces. “Peter, do not crowd him. If he wants to be alone, let him be.”

“Listen to whore, flarker,” Yondu says. Then slams his mouth shut, wide-eyed and mutinous, as if daring Peter to slap him for insolence. There’s no choice but to retreat. Peter gazes across the growing distance between him and his mentor, feeling lost and helpless and all kinds of afraid. How’s he supposed to handle this? How’s he supposed to _fix_ this? And – flark! – how’s he gonna tell Kraglin?

Gamora’s steering has turned to plaintive tugs, now he’s out of Yondu’s immediate vicinity. “Come, Peter,” she whispers, pushing Drax ahead of her. Peter’ll have to deal with him too – the big guy looks shell-shocked, gobsmacked expression not having left his face since Yondu spat at his feet and tried to kick him in the balls before fleeing to his corner. “Give him time.” The understanding cadence to her voice only adds to Peter’s heartache. The only thing worse than facing the after-effects of whatever abuse Yondu has faced since the last time they saw him, is knowing that Gamora has suffered similarly. He should listen. Follow her lead, be guided by her experience…

But there’s still something he needs to say.

“Please,” he calls over his shoulder. “Please. What’s your actual name, so I can use that instead?”

Yondu’s got his face buried in his arms. From the height his spiky little shoulders have hiked to, he’s staving off tears and would very much like to be left to deal with them in peace. “I tell ya before,” he whispers. His voice – gruff but unbroken, an odd combination – cracks in the back of his throat. “I tell ya when I a child.”

 _You’re still a child,_ Peter wants to scream. _You’re still a child, and dammit, whatever’s being done to you is wrong and gross and you deserve none of it._ But shouting at Yondu is definitely not the way forwards – even if that was Yondu’s tried-and-tested method of getting his own weepy Terran charge to buck up and take note. “Tell me again?” he pleads, as Gamora loses patience and drags him over the threshold. “Please? Just one more time? I’ll remember, I promise –“

His overtensed muscles shake in Gamora’s hold. Every tendon strains towards Yondu, desperate to make him acknowledge his sincerity. The kid sniffles into his armpit. He says something that could be ‘yurt’ or ‘pretzel’. Then the door fills Peter’s vision, Gamora’s hand settled over the locking pad. As captain, Peter could override. But one look at her stern face dissuades him from trying.

“Leave him be, Quill,” she says. “Let him come to us on his own terms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **OH DEAR. Tell me thoughts/feelings below?**


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin wants to stab everything, Gamora included, and Yondu talks.**

Peter expects that means Yondu’ll saunter back into their lives within the hour, with a grumbly not-apology for almost relieving him of his eyeballs and an explanation for what went wrong between one yearly snapshot and the next.

By the second day, he’s mildly concerned. By the third, he’s downright worried.

“I can’t believe this,” Peter says. Kraglin, relieved from his bedrest, had been filled in the day before. He’s about as happy leaving Yondu alone as Peter. But Gamora’s assigned herself guard-duty, and while Kraglin’s terror of her doesn’t quite outweigh his desperation to see his captain, it comes close. Close enough for him not to suggest storming the central room of their own damn ship. Or at least, not _seriously_. Peter hopes.

Right now, he’s taking out his frustrations on a spare fender, whittling it in furious up-and-down strokes of a knife. His shoulder has been packed with antiseptic gel and bandages, and although the missing flesh has cut another pound from his already scanty weight, he’s devouring as much of their foodstock as he can get his hands on and seems well on his way to recovery. “Damn right,” he spits. “We need t’be in there, with him –“

Here we go again. Peter shakes his head. “No! Look, I trust Gamora –“

“That makes one of us.”

“She knows what she’s talking about, Kraglin! He’ll talk to us when he wants to.” If he wants to, whispers that traitorous voice in the back of Peter’s mind. Peter orders himself to ignore it. After all, if Yondu decides to cut contact with them on a permanent basis, he’ll never accept Kraglin onto his crew or take on a small Terran cabinboy. As the universe has yet to rupture at the seams, Peter can only assume that that eventuality won’t pass. And _that_ means they have no choice but to wait Yondu out.

Drax’s vast palm engulfs Kraglin’s shoulder – the one that’s not bandaged, which is good for both of their sakes, because otherwise Kraglin’s knife would’ve wound up embedded somewhere painful.

“Kraglin,” he says heavily. “I know you care for Yondu just as much as I do. And thus you must realize, as I have, that Lady Gamora is correct. Even if you do not wish to accept it, you will. For Yondu’s sake.”

“Wow, buddy.” Peter squeezes Drax’s knee under the table. “That was real eloquent.”

“Thank you, Peter.” Drax looks a little misty-eyed. “I merely wish that I could tell the child he is not alone.”

“You and me both.” Kraglin hems under his breath. “…And Kraglin too. I’m sure it won’t be long now. He just needs time to come to terms with… with whatever happened.”

“How much time? Like three years?” calls Rocket, eavesdropping shamelessly from the kitchen.

Peter ignores him. Yondu will come around. He knows it. And if this continues much longer, at least it’ll give Kraglin more ammunition in his ongoing argument with his captain about which one of them Peter gets his impressive grudge-holding tendencies from.

They’re three hours into the third day when Yondu’s silence breaks.

Gamora’s been leaving food just inside the room Yondu’s claimed for his anchorite cell. She diligently scrubs the plates when they’re shoved back through the crack, not trying to touch the thin, bruised blue fingers that deposit them. Rocket’s name is on the washing-up roster for this week, and it’s unlike Gamora to ignore that sanctified schedule. But Peter recognizes this for what it is: a means of convincing herself that she has some control over Yondu’s situation, so uncomfortably similar to her own.

While he bitches over every other assigned chore, Rocket’s whiskers twitch grumpily when Gamora doesn’t pressure him into cleaning Yondu’s crockery. Because of course, the Guardians don’t _tell_ each other they care about each other. That’d be far too easy. Instead, they show their affection in a thousand intimate little ways: Peter constructing a shaky shelf at knee-height so Rocket can reach the soap in the shower; Gamora always buying an extra pot of blade polish for Drax, and vice versa; Drax moving Groot from console to console when they’re orbiting a star, so the little guy can absorb maximum sunlight. Scrubbing the kid’s dirty plates would be Rocket’s way of saying he’s sorry for the flark Yondu’s been put through, without any of the longwinded gushy drivel favored on Xandarian soap operas. Words don’t mean nothing, in their line of work. Or at least, actions mean a whole lot more.

Not that there’s much left on the plates that need cleaning. Yondu must be licking them, hoovering up every crumb he can get. It’s tempting to feed him something more substantial. Peter’s not allowed to see him, but he’d looked scarily skinny on that first awful meeting, like a cuttlefish bone with blue skin stretched over it that's been left to dry. But Drax and Gamora agree that if the kid’s polishing off the small portions they’re giving him with gusto, there’s no way he has the self-control to eke out a full meal. He’ll guzzle until he pukes, which’ll do him no good at all.

Gamora nudged the latest bowl through the gap five minutes ago, and has retaken her guard position in the doorway. Peter, lurking with Kraglin and Drax in the vestibule below the cockpit, is tempted to admit defeat and call it a night. This whole situation is… exhausting. It’s exhausting to contemplate what might’ve happened to Yondu, to transform him from a bubbly kid into this cringing, snapping creature that would bite the hand that fed him, if only Gamora let it linger long enough. It’s exhausting to have to channel Drax and Kraglin’s worries as well as his own. And it’s exhausting to have Yondu look at him with genuine hate, for the first time in either of their lives.

But rather than the clank of a pewter bowl smacking the doorframe, signalling to Gamora that it’s time for a speedy cutlery-extraction, the opening pad buzzes green and the heavy blast door folds open.

“When the Starpeople came, I told my family they was friendly,” says Yondu quietly.

His voice is croaky, as if he’s just hitting puberty – which may well have been put off a few years by malnourishment. It lodges in his throat, every word a battle. Peter can’t tell if this is because his vocal cords aren’t designed for speaking common Xandarian, or because of the subject matter. His suspicions are swayed towards the latter when the fifteen-year-old looks up, holding the empty bowl defensively between them. His stomach is disturbingly concave, and the pouch skin hangs loose when there’s no muscle or fat to bulk it out from behind. Despite his skinniness, there’s a lump in his abdomen, as there would be for any starving child who’d just inhaled a quarter of their bodyweight in food. Yondu rubs it, wincing, as he addresses his words to Peter’s toecaps; he's small and sore and furious with the galaxy at large.

“I told ‘em they was gonna look after us. I told ‘em they was _you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Super-short! I've been very busy at work, so have little energy for writing... sobsob. But I'm still plugging away at this baby, because you all deserve 100% more yondu angst in your lives.**


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu explains his name, Kraglin is mad, and Peter puts his foot in it.**

“I think,” says Drax, as Yondu clambers stiffly onto the seat beside him, careful to not so much as brush his arm, “we ought to tell him what’s going on.”

“Tell me what?”

Yondu – no, not _Yondu,_ but _Ytzl_ – keeps his head down. Whatever his captors have done to subdue him, it’s impressive (disturbing, more like). The kid still speaks when he hasn’t been spoken to, but, as in this instance, it’s followed by widening eyes and a duck to the side. It’s rare to see Drax emoting beyond jubilant, furious, or nonplussed – excepting those times when he holds Peter’s hand and tenderly cups his face to draw him in for a kiss. But right now, the big guy’s granite-grey cheeks are crinkly with the effort it takes to not broadcast his sympathy. He knows Ytzl well enough to be sure that the kid won’t appreciate it.

“Yondu,” he says softly. The name makes Ytzl’s lips draw up his gums, little yellow fangs bared in a hiss. Peter winces. He should’ve shared that little snippet of information with the rest of his crew. He’d been intending to, in fact – but then Ytzl had come out of hiding, and he’d spoken those quiet, jerky words, and everything had happened so fast…

_I told ‘em they was you._

It would be wrong to interrogate him. The kid’s still smarting; the years between the actual event and his confession to the Guardians haven’t been enough for him to heal. From his tone, his phrasing, Peter knows he blames himself.

 _It's not your fault,_ he wants to say. __As if you telling the tribe that the Starwalkers were enemies would’ve stopped them annihilating you. They’re space dwellers! Plasma guns outmatch primitive arrows, even if those arrows come with whistle-control.__

But he suspects that wouldn’t help. This is a truth Ytzl needs to come to on his own terms, in his own time.

“Ytzl?” he says, trying out the harsh syllables. The glottal stop catches in his throat, and he can’t make it as seamless, or as naturalistic as _Yondu._ But perhaps that’s the point. Even if his name’s beyond the capacity of Terran vocals, Peter’s gotta make the effort. He’ll pronounce it wrong a thousand times before he’ll call him _Yondu_ again.

Ytzl cracks a smile at his elocution, which is surely atrocious. Then, before Peter can make even more of an ass of himself with his second attempt, Ytzl peeks at him from under his hairless blue browbone. The collar around his neck looks horrendously heavy. The metal is thicker than Ytzl’s twiggy limbs; he rubs it as he answers, a quick and habitual gesture that does little to alleviate the sores on either side of his throat. “S’okay. Don’t mind so much anymore. I’m used to Yondu now.”

Drax must sense there’s a conversation here to which he’s only been privy to half. He looks between Ytzl (Yondu, whatever) and Peter like he’s watching a small furry critter being batted between baiting-lizards at a Knowhere casino, waiting to see which will emerge triumphant. A part of Peter wants to keep arguing. He wants to stamp his feet and reiterate that if 'Yondu' is a name bestowed by Ytzl’s captors, not by his parents or himself, then no way in hell is Peter gonna keep using it. But Drax’s concerned stare makes him reassess. Instead of demanding that Ytzl allow him to use his proper name, Peter takes a short, sharp inhale and turns his analysis inwards. What it turns up is surprising – or not, given that it’s been lurking in his subconscious mind for stars-know-how long.

His anger stems in equal parts concern for the boy opposite, and frustration; frustration because his captain never once bothered to mention _“Oh, by the way, Yondu ain’t my real name.”_

Or, now that Peter thinks about it, any details regarding his past at all. Time is circular, according to the Collector. So did it never occur to Yondu that his childhood excursions to the _Milano_ meant he was bound to wind up in a situation like this? Well, now Peter’s gotta play things by ear. All because of Yondu’s stupid pride (or his inability to trust, or one of a thousand other grimy fragments that compose the Ravager captain’s psyche). The a-hole never told Peter that he too knew what it was like to be wrenched from his home and spat into the stars. But while Peter’s never going to forgive the old geezer for that, he can at least control himself enough to not take out his anger on this younger version.

“I’ll call you what you want me to,” he says, trying to catch Yondu’s gaze so the boy knows he’s in earnest. But Yondu doesn’t look at him, not even in acknowledgment. “Kid. Did you hear me?” Yondu nods, gaze still squarely fixed on the table’s scratched chrome patina. “Well, say something then. Where’d ‘Yondu’ even come from? And why were you so uppity about it when you showed up three days – I mean, years ago? I can think of worse nicknames…”

“Peter,” says Drax softly.

Peter scowls. “What? Don’t you wanna know?”

“Only if Yondu wants to tell.”

“S'okay.” Yondu’s Xandarian is heavily accented, but markedly less clumsy than Peter remembers. “Ain’t such a big story, or nothin’.” He takes a deep breath. Touches the collar again. The hole cut in his crest – sheering through the slim spinal-struts and the fragile, tight-stretched flesh – has healed over, its insides gnarly with scar-tissue. Peter finds his gaze meandering back to it as Yondu continues: “S’just my number. Or the first part of it.”

There’s a pause. Then, from the other side of the room – “What do you mean, your number?”

Oh yeah. Kraglin. Peter needs to stop letting him fade into the background – sure, it’s the skinny git’s speciality, but it’s damn unnerving when you hear his voice boom from the shadows, and spot his gaunt stick-figure blocking the gleam from the porthole window like he’s been carved from a wedge of deepspace.

Yondu evidently doesn’t feel the creep-factor. His smile makes another fleeting appearance. He twists in his chair, meaning to bestow it on Kraglin directly – then freezes as he registers the expression on his future-mate’s furious face. “I- I, what did I – I’m sorry!“

Drax rises from his seat. He’s a sturdy barrier erected between man and boy. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Kraglin blinks at him, distracted from his glowering. Then at Yondu: barely visible behind the Destroyer’s bulk, a cowering blue ball, trying to pack all four of his bony limbs into the safety of Drax’s shadow.

Peter remembers crawling into the vent shafts when the cannibalistic threats became a little too nightmare-inducing. He remembers huddling small, as Yondu is now. He remembers the few times Yondu had bothered to come find him, rather than declaring that the brat would emerge when he smelled food, and he remembers how Yondu sat with him untalking, almost mirroring Peter’s position, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around them like they were playing that old game Peter remembers from trampoline parties in his youth, where you had to make a tightly curled-up egg of yourself that couldn’t be cracked by the hardest bounces.

“It’s not you he’s mad at,” he says quickly, addressing Yondu as he devolves into a twitching blue egg of his own. The boy’s crest must be nearing full height. Even ignoring the hole, it’s as frail-looking as the rest of him. Peter brushes the drooping tip, watching tension shoot through too-thin shoulders. “I promise, no one here is gonna hurt you.”

There’s less bruises than there were last time Peter saw him. But scars litter his snakelike blue skin: ugly and ragged slashes that crisscross across Yondu’s back as if someone has taken a belt to him. Imagining who, or what, or why, only makes Peter’s heart hurt. He refuses to let his fingertips linger, tracing to the tip of Yondu’s crest instead, and scritching the sides in the way that made the boy’s leg tic when he was small. There’s no giggling now. Yondu waits for the touch to pass or transmute into pain. Peter releases him, feeling oddly bereft. He doesn’t know what he expected. Yondu to fling himself into his arms like he’d done when he was five? To use his limited lexicon to tell Peter that he believes him? What he gets – a boy who doesn’t shy from his touches, but only because he’s holding himself stiff as a manikin – is as unsatisfying and sour-tasting as any dose of reality.

The kid Peter knew is gone. He’s not coming back. This Yondu has taken several steps – possibly even a bound or two – towards the Ravager Captain they know. And Peter doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

“What do you mean about the number?” he prompts, while Drax folds to sit, sneering at Kraglin as if he’s something pried from the undercarriage of the _Milano_ after a swamp-landing. Kraglin, hands raised in silent apology, is wise enough not to approach. But Peter feels his eyes boring into him as he picks one of Yondu’s limp palms from the table top and cups it between his own, as if he can pour love into him through tactile osmosis. “Yondu’s not a number.”

“Not the way you say it.” Yondu submits to the handholding, but doesn’t reciprocate. It feels more like a defeat, if anything – as if the boy’s simply accepted that he’s going to be touched, and knows better than to fight. “Yon-Du-Du-Yon-Ta was best I could manage when they first picked me up.”

_When I first picked ya up off Terra –_

Peter bites his cheek, the sting snapping him from the recollection. “One-two-two-one-three,” he whispers. He rattles the number off fast, too fast to notice that each one hits Yondu like an open slap. The hand in his goes impossibly slacker, as if it’s only Yondu’s willpower that’s preventing it from falling deadweight back to the table.

“Yes, master.”

Peter blinks, registering the wary red gaze that’s turned on him, Kraglin’s fury, Drax’s warning scowl. And hastily puts Yondu’s hand down, incarcerating his own under the tabletop. “No! No, I didn’t mean… Don’t call me that. You don’t have to call me that. It’s – “

Wait. Should he tell Yondu his name? Will that change things _,_ further down the line? _The future is malleable,_  so the Collector claims. But Peter doesn’t want to test by how much.

He’s used pseudonyms before. Given time, he’s sure he could come up with something that Yondu would never link to his dumb Terran pet. But there is no time. There’s just Yondu’s face, small and angular and mistrustful, and Peter’s half-finished sentence hanging between them. He’s gotta break the silence. He’s gotta say _something._ And so he does.

“Bacon,” Peter finishes weakly. “I’m Kevin Bacon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry it's been so long... Too many plotbunnies; not enough time to nurture them all. You know how it is! Comments are the best motivation though; not that I'm hinting.**


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Gamora cooks, Peter tells stories, and Yondu deserves a thousand hugs.**

Gamora slams Peter’s plate down with more force than necessary. Her latest kitchen concoction – because Gamora has taken to cooking like she takes to all her assigned chores: with a steely-eyed determination despite her complete and utter lack of skill – slops over the rim and splatters the tabletop. Peter’s surprised it doesn’t eat straight through.

“I can’t believe you told him your name is Kevin Bacon.”

“What? It was a little white lie…”

“He’s gonna work it out sooner or later,” Kraglin says. Then, pulling a face at the purple smoke rolling off his own portion – “I ain’t lyin’ to him none. Don’t give me none of your dumb Terran names.”

“Okay, okay! You’ve only got yourself to blame if he freaks out when he first meets you… Y’know, meets you again. Got it?”

The six of them, Guardians-plus-Kraglin-but-sans-Yondu, have gathered for a quick powwow in the kitchen. Groot isn’t much help – he’s passed out in the sunniest spot. The corona of twigs around his head vibrates as he snores. (Why a tree needs to snore – or breathe, for that matter – Peter hasn’t asked. He's pretty sure the answer would be ‘I am Groot’.) He’s exempt though, as he’s barely past his potted phase. Rocket, who’s similarly put his day on hold for a sun-baked siesta, has no such excuse.

“Might be for the best,” he grumbles, scratching his belly through the miniature jumpsuit. “Then we can rewrite up to this present moment, and have us an adventure without Skinny over there.”

“Or,” says Kraglin, lifting his spoon and letting goop drizzle from the end, “I could fry ya up and treat us to some _real_ dinner.”

Gamora squints at her bowlful. “I do not understand. Is it too rare for your tastes?”

“Rare? Sweetheart, this’s still kickin’. Or I think it might be about to start.”

“Congratulations, Franken-mora,” mutters Peter under his breath, feeding a scoop of his food to Yondu’s potplant (which has been moved to the table so they might remember to water it once in a while). “You’ve created life.”

Drax, who’s scooted his chair close enough that his thigh nudges Peter’s every other second, treats him to a confused frown. “What is a Franken-mora?”

“Terran thing.”

“I wish to learn more of your culture, Peter. I find it as fascinating as I find you. Please enlighten me.”

He wants to know more? _No one_ wants to know more about Peter’s barmy Terran references. It’s why he’s given up on keeping them to himself – he’s accepted that he can be as noisy as he wants about _Footloose_ and _ET the Extra-Terrestrial,_ and no one’s gonna have a clue what he’s talking about, let alone prod for further details. 

“Uh, Frankenstein was a book. An old one, I think? I never read it, but my mom, when she was sick… There wasn’t much she could do besides read, y’know?" Peter manages a little laugh. "Think she chewed through every book my grandma and grandpa owned. That was one of them. She’d have me read her snippets when she was too weak to... Too weak to hold it up properly." Drax nods along. Peter draws strength to continue from the understanding in his eyes. "I couldn’t pronounce half the words, but I remember… There was a monster. And everyone nowadays calls him Frankenstein, but that wasn’t his name. He didn’t _have_ an actual name – they all just called him what he was. _The Monster._ Frankenstein was the name of the scientist who created him. He built him out of dead people, then… electrocuted him, or something. And bam, hey-presto. Life.”

“That ain’t how life works,” Rocket dismisses. He studies a suspect piece of dinner from every angle, before deeming it non-toxic and popping it in his mouth. The face he pulls as he swallows suggests that he’d rather it was, if only so he didn’t have to suffer through the rest. “Look, if life was electric, I’d’ve made the _Milano_ sentient a thousand times over.”

Peter almost chokes on his mouthful. This is impressive, as he’s eating in small bites in the hopes it’ll fool his stomach into thinking he’s full. “You’ve been zapping my ship?” Gamora pulls a face at the half-mulched food visible on his tongue – but it didn’t look any more appetizing before he chewed it, so she’s got no real reason to complain.

Drax, the only one to be eating with anything approaching gusto, drops a hand (or an anvil, Peter’s not sure which) on his shoulder. “Rocket. If you have damaged my friend’s ship in any way –“

“'Friends,'” snorts Kraglin into his mug of rotgut. Who knows where he got it. After a certain incident that is never to be spoken of again, involving Drax and liquor and drunk-dialling Ronan, the _Milano’s_ been declared a dry-zone. But a Ravager isn’t a Ravager without the ability to acquire tankards of moonshine wherever they go. Kraglin’s poison-of-choice smells like it might actually drown out the taste of Gamora’s home-cooking: something bitter and acrid and whiskey-colored. Peter’s only jealous he hasn’t offered to share. “Sure, that’s all you two are.”

Kraglin’s used to providing a snide voice-over to every situation, so that his captain can laugh at it. He’s also used to hiding behind his captain, and his captain’s arrow, when those commentaries aren’t well-received. He realizes at the same moment Peter does that there’s no such refuge to be found anymore. Putting as much distance between himself and Drax as he can, Kraglin shuffles to the far edge of his seat. “Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that, big guy…”

Drax doesn’t appear offended. In fact, his eyes have that peculiar sparkle to them that Peter’s come to associate with hand-holding, thigh-brushing, and rushed stolen kisses where no one else can see. And… well shit. It’s been a while since Kraglin goaded them about their relationship. Drax is probably gonna proclaim to the galaxy at large – or at least, the four other guardians – just what Peter means to him. And blame it on his past as a womanizer, never tied down to any lover for more than a night, or the accompanying fear that calling what they have by any formal name will jinx it, but Peter’s not sure he can handle that yet.

Drax opens his mouth. And under the table, Peter’s nails bite into his leg.

Drax’s mouth shuts. That expression, as if he plans on serenading Quill here and now, folds from his face. “We are friends,” he reasserts.

Peter relaxes. He supposes it’s not _technically_ a lie – even if the other Guardians are staring at Drax as if he’s just sprouted cat ears and a tail. “What?” Peter asks.

Rocket squawks out one of his fake-laughs. He’s got to have a patent on those things by now.

“ _What?_ ”

“Friends? You expect us to believe that? We ain't _stupid_. You’re crawling all over each other whenever you have a minute –“ As if. Peter and Drax barely _have_ any minutes. They’ve yet to move beyond kissing – a record that far surpasses any held by Peter’s previous relationships. And the novelty of _taking it slow_ is starting to wear. Sure, it’s not convenient to be banging on every horizontal surface, not when you’re sharing space with a crew – a space more cramped than ever with the loss of Kraglin’s M-ship, abandoned in the Ravager hangar to Taserface and his goons. But Peter’s a Terran in his prime. He _wants._ He wants Drax beneath him, over him, inside him, around him. He wants Drax spread on a bed, pinned to a wall, draped over the kitchen counter. He’s starting to feel like a Doctor Seuss book, but the point is that he wants Drax anyway, anyhow, and if he continues this vein of thought there’s a fair chance he’ll be popping a tent in his pants by the time they clear plates from the table. “Look,” he says huffily, jabbing his fork at Rocket – and conveniently flicking an underripe tuber onto his plate. _Whoops._ “If you wanna poke fun, poke fun. But this isn’t any of your business.”

The door gushes open before things can escalate into a full-blown argument. Yondu stands there, a bony blue shadow of the man Peter knows. When he realizes they’re staring, he raises his bowl, defensive. “M’done. Where do I wash up?”

“S’my turn to wash,” snaps Rocket before Gamora can open her mouth. “Leave it in the kitchen.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Guardians cringe in unison. Rocket takes a breath, like he’s convincing himself not to snarl. “Don’t call me that,” he says.

“Yes, mas –“

“Not that either!”

The kid swallows. The action makes his throat strain painfully at the collar. And by the stars, Peter wants that off him. But who’s to say it wouldn’t still be snapped when Yondu returns to his time – and then what’d happen? Peter’s smart enough to know that sometimes, immediate kindness is crueller in the long-run.

“Kid,” he says, dragging over the spare stool. “C’mere.” Yondu twitches away, the expression on his face indicating that he thinks this a trap. Is that how you train Centaurians, Peter wants to ask? Trick them into sitting at a table alongside those they’re intended to serve, then punish them when they obey? “We’re not gonna hurt you,” he says again. That's been repeated so often over the past couple of days that the words are shaped by muscle-memory. “Please. I’d like you to sit with us, if you’re comfortable with it.”

Yondu looks as far from comfortable as he can get. His eyes flick to the kitchen, then to his empty bowl – practically polished again; the kid must be truly starving – as if he’s debating which order to follow first. Peter’s comforting smile feels over-stretched, elastic and fake. “You can bring your bowl. I’ll carry it through to the kitchen when we’re done. It’s easier, if we stack them all.”

Yondu continues to dither for as long as it takes for him to process the logistics and determine that yes, that would be more efficient. Peter’s heart aches for him: the kid who’s more willing to believe that he’s being allowed to approach the table because it’ll save an unnecessary journey to the kitchen, than because he’s among friends. He scoots out the stool invitingly with his foot, and pats the seat. Yondu clambers onto it. is toes dangle far off the ground. He holds his bowl on his lap and studies his reflection in the stainless steel, running his finger around the rim to catch any juices his tongue missed. Sat besides him, Peter can see the curve where the food distends his belly. Yondu's so thin it hurts to look at him too long. At least that gives Peter an excuse for losing his appetite. Smiling weakly at Gamora, he nudges his half-finished plate away.

He feels the kid’s eyes boring into it. Apologetically, he shunts it further out of reach. “Sorry. Eat any more and you’ll puke, little guy.”

Yondu doesn’t say anything. Just sits, feet hanging limp like he’s afraid he’ll be told off if he kicks. He turns his empty bowl around and around, studying its depths like they’re tea-leaves. Suffice to say, the dinner atmosphere is ruined. The Guardians can’t hold it against Yondu. Not when he’s like this: small and scared and alone even when surrounded by people who care for him.

Peter turns to Kraglin, tone revealing his desperation. “So. Kraglin. Kraggles. Krags, my man. Heard anything more from the Ravagers?”

Kraglin’s gaze doesn’t swerve from Yondu. His fists are tight where they rest on the table top, back hunched at a sharp angle. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d think Kraglin was furious – and he _is,_ but not one jot of it is aimed at his future captain. “No,” he says shortly.

Peter claps his hands. “Good! That’s good. Excellent. Don’t have to worry about ol’ Tasie then, huh?”

“I would still be wary of the threat he poses,” murmurs Gamora. She at least seems to understand the necessity of normalizing this, kickstarting conversation, keeping Yondu from feeling like an intruder whose presence reduces them to silence. “He will have collected his wayward Ravagers. They will have told him of our guest.”

Their guest opens his mouth, as if he’d very much like to say something. Then shuts it again. He sinks back into himself, the nails clicking on his bowl the loudest sound he allows himself to make. Peter resists the urge to clap him on the shoulder, the way Yondu used to when he was trying to get his weedy Terran charge to buck up and stop crying every time an alien told him he’d look far better stuffed and roasted on a plate. He gives him a little prod with his elbow instead – and tries not to show disappointment at Yondu’s flinch. “Go on. What were you going to say?” When Yondu seems less inclined to talk than ever, Peter transfers his gaze to the other Guardians, wishing not for the first time that they were better at looking hospitable. “There’s nothing wrong with asking questions, kid. Not here, at least. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but we don’t mind answering.”

 _Y’know, so long as it’s nothing that might cause you to never take on a certain Terran-transportation job, and doom the universe in the process._ But that goes without saying.

Yondu licks his lips. “Was… was gonna ask. Whassa Ravager?”

Kraglin comes to the rescue while Peter’s mouth makes silent shapes, tugging his arm round so Yondu can see the patch. “I’m one.” He nods at Peter. “He was one. And them goons you met a coupla days – uh, years back, the ones Groot there totalled? They’re Ravagers too.”

Yondu looks… fascinated. He reaches out, one hand leaving the safe anchor of the bowl, but hesitates before he touches. Kraglin makes the decision for him, scooting his arm along the table so the patch rests under the kid’s inquisitive fingers, letting him trace the ridges of the tacking-stitches and the pinholes in the leather. “It’s pretty,” he says. Kraglin’s bicep tenses – not that there’s very much of it.

“What?”

On the other side of the table, Rocket makes a poor job of hiding his giggles. “Y-you heard him,” he splutters. “The Ravager flame’s p-p-pretty.”

A-hole. But rather than snarling, Kraglin manages to conjure a smile. “Yeah, kid,” he says. “Yeah, it sure is.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm sorry it's been so long! I'm busy creating a backlog of fic/art to start posting after the Gotg 2 hype kicks this fandom into gear. I'm a greedy sod, and I want more kudos/comments, dammit. But yeah - hope you enjoyed this! And that you haven't given up on these idiots.**


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu is dolled up, Drax is angry, and Kraglin is... well, Kraglin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS FOR OFFSCREEN AND PAST UNDERAGE SEX (by American standards). Don't like it? Feel free not to read it.**

Yondu at seventeen looks how Yondu at fifteen ought to have looked, if he’d been fed a decent portion more than once a year. He’s still small, but his skin moves sleekly over meat rather than bone. As he uncurls from his hunched entry position, Peter notices that his weight isn’t the only thing that’s changed. His ears are pierced. As, Peter can’t help but notice, are his nipples and the lip of his pouch: a line of small shell-like gold beads dotted along its length that catch the light when he moves. There’s bangles of a similar hue jangling on his wrists, and more around his ankles – pretty facsimiles of a slave’s cuffs. The collar remains, imposing and brutal as ever, although at least Yondu’s neck has muscle on it now, and doesn’t look like it’s about to crumple under the weight. His drab, tattered red loincloth has been upgraded to a fancier, albeit shorter, model. Much, much shorter.

Yondu notices the stares. It’d be hard not to. The Guardians, fanned out behind Peter, clock his new look one after another and exchange raised eyebrows. He crosses his arms and scowls at his feet.

“The flark y’all lookin’ at.”

Kraglin clears his throat. Manages not to ogle too obviously. “Nothin’,” he says, sounding strangled. “Right, guys?”

Peter can practically _feel_ Drax swelling up behind him. “I do not see _nothing._ I see that Yondu has been dressed as a _harlot,_ and I am not best pleased.”

Flarking Christ. Peter smacks him on the shoulder. He knows Drax doesn’t have a sensitive bone in his body – or at least, only very bluntly-shaped ones. But can’t the guy have a little _tact?_ Peter doubts Yondu’s done up like this of his own volition. He’s _clean_ for starters. Back on board the _Eclector,_ showering only happened at Kraglin’s insistence, and considering Kraglin’s own tenuous relationship with hygiene, that wasn’t very often. And the insinuation that Yondu’s job description has changed from ‘general serving-slave’ to ‘eye-candy’ or worse? That makes Peter’s intestines knot all the way to his bowel.

At Drax’s words, Yondu pulls himself a little taller – still not very. He tries out a glower. It’s a relief to know there’s still pride in there, bundled under scars and tattoos and jingling gold. “Shut yer mouth, big guy. I ain’t no whore.”

Drax does a surprisingly good guppy impression. Peter lays a comforting hand on his shoulder, trying not to wear his relief too openly. “They grow up so fast,” he says. Kraglin snickers. The sound makes Yondu’s pointed ears twitch. He rounds on him. Kraglin’s laugh dies in his throat. What it’s replaced by – a choke as Yondu stalks closer, loincloth revealing far, far too much thigh for Peter to be comfortable with – at least gives Kraglin an excuse for his bright red face, as he coughs and splutters into his fist.

“Kevin Bacon,” Yondu says to Peter. Peter pulls a face at Gamora’s expectant glare. He’s not correcting Yondu. Not yet.

“Yeah?”

“I wanna talk to this guy.” He taps Kraglin on the chest, lingering a little too long over the dark metal of his jumpsuit zipper. His crest glimmers like a bloody sunset, and his smile is all teeth. “Alone.”

Drax takes the opportunity to come to his senses. “Not dressed like that you’re not!”

Peter slaps a hand over his mouth. Smiles apologetically at Yondu. “Sure thing,” he says, and gestures for the other Guardians to precede him out the room. Last thing he does is shoot a look to Kraglin – an eloquent look, he hopes; one that encompasses everything words can’t, not while Yondu’s _right there,_ looking despicably young and – ugh, just _admitting_ it makes Peter feel grimy – entirely too fuckable. Peter’s comfortable in his sexuality: his preferences being anything with boobs, or men big enough that their pecs make decent replacements. While Yondu doesn't fit that mold, he can admit that his little get-up (very, _very_ little) is enticing. But this isn’t about _sexuality;_ it’s about seeing a guy who is, in both the eyes of Nova Corps age-regulations and Peter himself, _still a flarking child_ , dressed like jailbait. It’s about watching someone he’s looked up to his entire life be demeaned. And it’s about Yondu standing far too close to Kraglin, entrenched in the guy’s personal bubble so that they're practically chest-to-chest.

And unlike if he were being accosted by Peter, Drax, Gamora, or any other Guardian or Ravager, Kraglin doesn’t back up.

He’s too busy staring at his captain to notice Peter’s warning glare. There’s nothing Peter can do or say that won’t be achingly obvious, and it’d be wrong to confront Kraglin about how he’s eyeing Yondu up when he’s just snapped at Drax for being blunt.

Peter sighs. He presses the close panel on the door. Then, after a brief moment spent contemplating if he’s going to regret this – survey says: _almost definitely_ – he locks it.

 

* * *

 

An hour later the door is still locked. Peter wonders if he ought to be concerned. Drax, by the way he’s eyeing up the frame, is past concerned and ready to kick it off its hinges. Peter lays a soothing hand on his bicep. “They’re just talking.”

Touching Drax when he’s angry is like poking a metal sculpture that’s been left in the sun for a couple of hours: firm and unyielding and almost burning to the touch. He tenses impossibly further at Peter’s words. His silent snarl, tombstone teeth on display and knuckles bleeding white, says more than any verbal reply. It also proclaims that he’s ready to storm over and commit some good old-fashioned door-destruction, which is the last thing the _Milano_ deserves. More persuasion is required.

Peter situates himself between Drax and his target, forcing Drax to focus on him. “You want to protect him,” he says, spreading his arms wide and looking seriously up at Drax from beneath his curly fringe. “I understand that. But he’s seventeen. You can’t watch his back every step of the way. Hell, we only get one day a year. If Yondu can fend for himself the rest of the time, he can handle Kraglin.”

Drax’s shoulders bunch. The sight of all that oxlike brawn would usually reduce Peter to goop. But right now, he’s too busy to swoon, propping more and more of his bodyweight onto the Destroyer, until he’s leaning on the big guy entirely. Drax doesn’t give an inch of ground.

“He shouldn’t _have_ to fend for himself,” he growls. “It isn’t _fair._ ”

Peter pats his chest. If there’s one positive to come of this situation, it’s that it allows him to make free and easy with Drax’s chiselled pectorals. A cheeky grope would be inappropriate, but this is almost as good. Maybe he’ll indulge himself tonight? Invite Drax to share his bunk, rather than the one below? Unless his nasty hunch about what’s going on behind those doors is correct, in which case he’ll be too busy scrubbing Kraglin’s blood from the floorgrills.

“Life isn’t fair,” he said, repeating an old maxim of his granddad’s. “Suck it up, kiddo. All I know is that Yondu wanted a bit of private time with his future… Uh. Y’know. After everything, I think he’s owed that.” He clears his throat. “And anyway, for your information, I was younger than him when I had my first time. So even if they  _are_ doing what you think they are – which I’m totally, absolutely, one hundred percent convinced they aren’t – who gives a flying rat’s ass?”

Drax takes an abrupt step to the rear. Not realizing how much he was leaning on him, Peter slumps face-first into those slab-like chest muscles. He only has a second to revel. Drax retrieves him, fishing him from the valley of his sternum before Peter has a chance to motorboat. “You,” he says, once he’s settled Peter on his own feet, “copulated whilst underage.”

Sheesh. Peter hadn’t thought he’d make such a big thing about it. Better Drax be glaring at him than that door though. He shrugs. “Yeah. But hey, it ain’t like every planet follows Nova Empire rules. There’s plenty species that hit their age of majority younger – and older – than Terrans. And uh. I’ll have you know that I was very mature.” The prostitute had told him so. She’d also been very well paid.

Drax’s crooked eyebrow proclaims that he doubts it. Peter coughs and tries a different tack. “What about you then, big man? Got any embarrassing stories to share?” Because he wants to flaunt them over him the next decade, not because he’s failed at broaching the subject of… well, anything beyond kissing for a week. But Drax shakes his head.

“I laid with my wife, and no other. Until I met you, she was the only person to make my nethers engorge.”

Of course he’s loyal, as well as perfect in every other feasible way - ignoring that last part about 'engorging nethers', which makes Peter want to bleach his eardrums. Peter, to whom fidelity is still an unfamiliar concept, gapes. “You didn’t… Not even once?” Drax’s expression darkens. “Nope. Nope, I see that you most certainly did not. I should never have asked, buddy. Of course you’re the monogamous type…”

“And,” says Drax, rumbling at a timbre that implies a threat, “I expect the same courtesy in return.”

Peter nods. He’s not even faking it. Or at least, not much. “You got it, big guy. You and me, we’re playing this one duo.”

“I don’t know what that means. But…” A little of the sternness seeps from Drax’s expression. “Your vow relieves me, Quill.” Vow? Peter’s about to protest, because he ain’t a matrimonial man. But something in Drax’s gaze stops him. “I… I do not want to change who you are, believe me. I appreciate you wholly, even your… grimier parts. But on this matter, Peter Quill, I desire all of you for myself.”

And he’s looking at Peter almost _nervously,_ big shoulders hunched in and mouth a tense line. God, Peter loves him.

He smirks, crowding in. He traces Drax's lips until they part in a softer purse, breath ghosting his fingertips. “That ranks among the top ten hottest things anyone’s ever said to me,” he whispers. Then has to clasp Drax’s hand, when it tests the temperature of his forehead. “No, not hot as in _hot._ Hot as in… Well.”

He leans in further, cupping the back of Drax’s head, drawing him close so Peter can whisper in his ear. He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to. Only recites the very tip of the iceberg, a small and select bouquet of filthy fantasies that have kept him awake at night. Now hopefully, they'll keep Drax awake too. Drax flushes a beautiful olive, the color of thick forest. He decides to shut him up in the traditional way.

 _Point one for Peter,_ Peter thinks as Drax’s mouth clamps hungrily on his own. He even manages to steer them around so Drax’ll be facing the opposite wall when he emerges from their liplock – although that’s not due to happen any time soon, not when Peter’s sucking so earnestly on his tongue. He's pretty proud of himself, all things considered. This is turning into a damn fine diversion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **As in my country, the age of consent is 16, I'm a little iffy about tagging this with 'underage'. What do you guys think?**


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Things Of An Adult Nature are alluded to, and Yondu dons his leathers.**

Unfortunately, not all the kisses in the world can distract from the pensive worry on Kraglin’s face. “Peter,” he says, snagging his sleeve. “I need to talk to you.”

The door had swung open not five minutes after Peter’s little display. Which is great and all, because Drax’s face had lit up like it was Christmas. But Peter’d been busy rubbing himself over as much of Drax’s body as he could, and had finally, finally convinced himself that the universe was gonna let him have some action (which kinda jinxed things, so he has no one to blame but himself). That makes it all the more unfair that Kraglin has just gotten laid.

The pair of them are in the _Milano’s_ cramped kitchen unit. Steam from the ready-meals Peter’s preparing (having begged Gamora to rescind her cooking duties) wafts between them, making Kraglin look sweatier and unhealthier than ever. The man looks ready to faint. And having heard what he’s just heard, Peter understands why.

“You _slept_ with him?” he squawks. “In the flarkin’ dining room? On the _table?_ Dude! I _eat_ there!” Then the blood drains from his face. “Oh flark.”

Kraglin’s eyes, huge and harried in the gaunt map of his face, twitch at the edges. “What.”

“Oh _flark._ ” Peter takes a step back, out of the potential evisceration radius. “Drax is gonna kill you.”

“No wait, hear me out!”

“Nuh-uh.” Peter shakes his head. “This is karma. You thought with your dick, now Drax’s gonna snap it off.”

Kraglin stumbles after him, deeper into the steam, until Peter’s back is crowded against the counter and there’s no more space for retreat. Up close, he smells – sex and sweat and some fruity cologne thing Yondu’d been wearing. Which means… ugh God; this isn’t a practical joke. This is actually _happening._ Peter’s only prevented from screeching ‘ick’ and finding a suitable puke-vessel by Kraglin’s expression. The guy looks… harried. Genuinely shaken, like he’s the one who needs to be wrapped in a shock blanket here, not Peter. Not a look most men wear post-coitus.

Peter quells his inner child, which is making loud vomit-noises at the thought of his captain and first mate together. “What happened?” he asks.

When Kraglin tells him, he wishes he’d never asked. Peter slumps back against the counter, catching his weight on his elbows and letting his head hang. That anger’s back: the impotent, futile rage that wants to hunt down Yondu’s… buyers, masters, whatever they are, and string them up by fishhooks through their ankles. “Flark,” he breathes. Kraglin’s tight-lipped mouth registers much the same sentiment. His tight-lipped, stained mouth.

Peter winces. “You, uh. Got a lil’ something.”

Kraglin helps himself to paper towel. “What are we gonna do?”

“I don’t. I don’t _know._ ” There’s a sickening hunch that tells Peter there’s nothing they _can_ do. The Artifact’ll do its work. Today’s Yondu will be replaced by tomorrow’s. And the dirty secret that’d spilled between him and Kraglin – _Master thinks I’m old enough to join him tonight. An’ if I don’t please him, there’ll be hell to pay. I’ve seen how ya look at me, Kraglin, an’ I know there’s more to all this than I understand. So won’t ya help me out? –_ will be swamped under another year of stars-know what abuses.

Only when the artifact throbs and eighteen-year-old Yondu swaggers into their life, it’s with a grin broad enough to show off his new metal canine. But that’s not the first thing Peter notices.

He has no crest.

The absence is jarring. It had to happen sooner or later, but the suddenness with which it went from a full proud foot of glossy, carnelian-red to _not there_ disturbs Peter on an almost visceral level.

Rocket nudges his shin. “At least he can wear a shirt now.”

Yondu’s showcasing this ability for them. He’s not just wearing a shirt, but a trenchcoat as well. There’s a gold flame stitched on the bicep, and another over his heart. “’Sup,” he greets, raising a hand. And _there’s_ that cocky smile, charming with an edge of _whistle-your-eyes-out_ dangerous. “Been a while.”

Drax clears his throat. “A year, to be precise.”

“Hm.” Yondu glances at him, stroking a chin that’s been allowed to grow stubble for the first time. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that. An’ I been meaning to ask – who are you guys anyway? You immortal? Are we talkin’ Asgardians? Sorry to break it to ya, but Kevin Bacon and uh, Kraglin, are the only ones that fit the standard model.”

None of them miss the lurch over Kraglin’s name, or the way Yondu’s eyes skip to him, boisterous persona wavering a moment as his pointed ears turn navy. This is unfortunate. Because while Kraglin’s shrinking in his overalls – and straining away from Drax, who’s blinking at Peter like he expects him to explain – Rocket’s grinning like he’s just been handed a landmine to fiddle with. He’s gonna tease them about this until Yondu loses patience and turns him into a lampshade.

The table has been sterilized and scoured with enough disinfectant to mask the after-odor of Gamora’s cooking. But that doesn’t erase the gravity of what occurred.

Peter clears his throat. “So Yondu,” he says, seguing in. “Ravagers, huh. You know what they are now?”

Yondu inclines his head, smirk regrowing. “Uh-huh. Didn’t tell ‘em the patch was pretty.” He shoots the still-sniggering Rocket a one-fingered salute. “Yeah, laugh it up, fuzzball.”

Peter doesn’t know if this is a case of his translator syncing unfamiliar words with those cribbed from Peter’s memories of Terra or whether, by some twist of time-travelly-nonsense, Yondu’s actually quoting Star Wars. For the sake of not confusing everyone, he decides not to ask. But rather than taking the insult lying down, Rocket bounces back to address the one topic they’ve all been avoiding.

“So, Blue. You’re lookin’ shorter than usual. Lose an accessory somewhere?” And he gestures to the line of crooked stitching that stretches over the skin of Yondu’s head, pulling two flaps across bare bone. Peter by this point is well used to his team digging holes. Rather than intervening, he comes to the consensus that Yondu will either yell or he won’t – either way there’s no arrow holster on his waist, so the amount of damage he can do is limited. But if Rocket’s prying pisses him off, Yondu doesn’t show it.

“The asshole who owned me cut it off,” he says breezily. “For _bad behaviour_.” He mimics an upper-crust accent for the last two words, not that it’s an especially good impression. His throat is still acclimatizing to the strain of Xandarian, let alone whatever language that had been – Kree _,_ Peter’s translator informs him. “A-hole caught me tryin’ to escape; made an example of me…” His scowl splits into a violent grin, golden canine flashing. “So I relieved him of a lil’ something too.”

“A little what?” Drax asks before Peter can stop him. Yondu is very determinedly not looking at Kraglin.

“Well, les’ just say that when the dude you’ve mutilated gets on his knees, you oughta think twice before taking him up on the offer.” Yeek. Peter’s balls shrivel – not in sympathy though, because the unnamed Kree doesn't deserve it.

“How’d you join the Ravagers?” he asked instead, steering the conversation away.

Yondu raised his hands. “Woah with the interrogation! Look, Kevin Bacon. S’been a long year. Right now I wanna drink and…” He stops. He’s not tall enough to peer over Peter’s shoulder, although he must be near-fully grown. It was easy to forget that Yondu's about six inches his shorter when he was all decked out in captain’s regalia, strutting across the _Eclector_ Bridge and barking orders, but right now Peter has to resist the urge to bestow a pat. He’d only get bitten fingers. This Yondu might be younger than him – younger than all of them bar Groot – but he isn’t a kid anymore, and won't appreciate being treated like one. Which is a shame, because after the ordeal he faced with his last master, Peter’s of the opinion he deserves a little coddling.

Which is why when Yondu barges past, eyes honed on the rock they took from his loot-hole (“Please Peter, never say ‘stashteroid’ again; it makes my translator chip hurt”) Peter doesn’t hold him back. “You still have it,” he breathes.

Peter nods. “We wouldn't throw it away.” That rock had been Yondu's steadfast companion for the days he spent in solitude. Peter had figured it meant something on a cultural level, something more than just _yaka-_ material – and Yondu's expression right now confirms it. He hasn't been back to his planet since he was taken (abducted, sold, kidnapped; whatever). This is probably the closest he's come to 'home' in some time.

Yondu runs reverent hands along the rock's gnobbled sides. “I never asked. Where’d ya find it?” Not a question Peter can answer without giving too much away. Luckily, Yondu moves on before he has to fangle a response. “I thought it was all gone. The badoon, they harvested it y'see. Dug up the entire planet… Trying to build weapons that’d respond to them like our arrows did to us.” His snort doesn't sound especially humorous. “Idjits. Yaka-bond ain’t something you can _create._ You either have it or ya don’t, and…” One hand hovers above the stone. The other, over Yondu’s shaved scalp. _And I don’t, any more,_ Peter fills in.

It’s the first time they’ve had this storage cupboard open – the rock having been shunted in there after the team were allowed back into the dining room to stop it getting underfoot. Rocket nudges the door panel. “You want me to lock ya in here so you can have a lil’ alone-time?” he queries. His eyes slide to Kraglin. “Maybe you could join him?”

“I don’t understand,” says Drax as Peter fights the urge to throttle his second-smallest teammate, and Yondu, coloring disguised by the rusty ambience of the cubby-hole, turns a rich royal blue. “It is far too cramped for two people. If they require more… alone time, perhaps we ought to loan them the dining room again –“

“Nuh uh.” Peter extracts Yondu from the closet rougher than necessary, the centaurian twisting to bestow a final longing stroke along the rock's crumbling edge before the door fwooshes shut between them. “Never again. Never again, you hear me?”

Yondu smirks at the finger wagging in his face. “Yes,  _dad._ ”

It’s said completely sardonically, but it still makes all of the Guardians freeze.

“What? That word mean something weird in yer lingo, or what?” He frowns at Peter, tapping under his earhoops where the faint bulge marks a buried translator chip. “An’ what _is_ that language, Kev? It ain't Xandarian, an' I can’t say I’ve heard it before...”

Peter swallows. “I’ll tell you when you’re older?” he tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If this feels like it's moving fast, it's because I'm trying to get us towards more plot. I hope it's still enjoyable! And remember, I love every comment. x**


	36. Chapter 36

The days roll by with languid ease. Yondu’s company is comfortable now, like a well-worn glove – he’s achingly familiar to the man Peter knew, even if he gets a little wide-eyed at the nebula they drift past en route to a trading outpost on the galaxy's edge, to drop off the gems from his future treasure trove. Peter guesses that Yondu’s masters, whoever they were, didn’t give their pets free rein to explore the galaxy.

He falls into place besides him, leaning on the edge of the hangar door while Yondu props his forearms on the porthole sill and breathes mist onto the glass. “How’s the Ravaging going?” he asks.

It’s just casual conversation, between two… _friends._ Is it right to call him and Yondu that now? It feels it – and the thought makes a spark sputter to life, low in the embers of Peter's heart. His relationship with the jolly blue a-hole has never been so simple nor as easily definable as _friendship._

Yondu grimaces, squeaking a finger through the cloud of breath on the shatterproof glass. He draws something – a sigil in his old language, by the looks of it. Peter doesn’t ask what it means. “Flarkin’ awesome, Kev. Won’t be five years before I’m boss of the band.”

Peter nudges him with his shoulder. “Last time you were here, you said two.”

Bearing the barge, Yondu elbows Peter in the spleen in retaliation. “Hey, guesstimates change. Y’never know – heck, next time ya see me I could have the flame on my chest rather than my armband.” He pounds it to demonstrate, right over his heart. His grin, reflected in the glass, is every bit as metallic, chipped, and disarmingly genuine as Peter remembers. For a moment he’s overcome with nostalgia. It’s been twenty-three days since the artifact first made the switch, transposing a little yodelling blue bean onto a grubby old pirate captain. Not even a month. But before that, it’d been three months since he robbed Yondu blind. Peter could be forgiven for missing that well-worn camaraderie, when he’d had his captain’s back and his captain had had his (so long as there wasn’t gold, trinkets, or Kraglin in the vicinity to distract him).

Yondu coughs, and Peter realizes he’s been staring. Their eyes meet in the spaceglass, Yondu shifting in what looks very almost like nervousness before reminding himself he’s a big bad space pirate now and he’s not afraid of nothing. He plants his hands on his hips, scowling. “What, I got somethin’ on my face?”

“Only a whole lotta ugly.” It’s relieving, to know he can make this Yondu laugh. The quiet and withdrawn iteration that preceded him had given Peter heebies all the way to his jeebies. But Yondu does deserve an explanation. Preferably one that won’t put the fate of the multiverse at risk. “Nothing personal. Just… you look like someone I used to know.”

“Oh?” Mystery solved, Yondu lengthens his focus beyond Peter’s reflection and gets back to star-gazing. He doesn’t seem especially interested, asking more out of a vague sense of politeness that must have been cultivated during his servitude, because he sure as hell hadn't exhibited it when he and Peter first met. “Who’s that then? Friend of yours?”

This is _so_ not a conversation Peter is ready for. _Timelines are malleable,_ the Collector claimed, But what if they’re cyclical too? If Peter goes to town and tells Yondu exactly what he thinks of his older self, sparing no gory detail, he may well be the cause of his own somewhat dubious treatment at the Ravager Admiral’s hands when Yondu recalls this very chat. Best not to risk it. Peter rubs the bristles on his upper lip, shrugging. “You could call him that. It’s… Y’know. Just a facial similarity. Nothing really.”

“Huh.” Yondu tilts his head, ensuring Peter can’t see his expression. “Betchu wouldn’t be saying that if I still had my crest. Ain’t many like me, no more. Not out here.”

Peter sighs. “Trust me, buddy. I understand that one.”

The eyes that slant towards him are mildly more curious now. “What’chu mean? Where in the galaxy do papas give their pouchlings dumb names like _Kevin Bacon?_ ”

Peter finds himself minding his words again, painting shapes in the air as if they will guide him. He settles on a diplomatic “Uncontacted planet.” But can’t help but add: “And _rude._ Kevin Bacon is an awesome name. The name of a great, venerable hero –“

“Who removes sticks from butts,” Yondu finishes. Then flashes Peter a wicked smirk. “Green chick told me that one.”

Of course she did. Peter mentally pictures himself banging his head on the wall – if Yondu weren’t there he’d probably indulge that temptation.

The need to refuel trumps the dangers of being spotted by Ravager-affiliates. They're swinging past Knowhere anyway, so Peter decides they might as well make a quick pitstop. It'll be safe so long as they don't hang around and chew the scenery. _Milano_ enters the chasmic gape of the Celestial’s eyesocket. They’re coming in through the same port that they’d docked at on their first voyage as a team, the Kyln’s dank scent still clinging to their skin. It’s exactly as Peter remembers – churning with miners, outlaws, bounty hunters, life of all kinds and magnitudes from the space-barnacles and the pollution-crusted lichen that accumulate on the underside of derelict ships, to the slow-moving, rhino-headed Juggernauts who grunt and heave in the unpacking bays, turning cogs that move the looming overhead cranes.

Yondu lopes into the hold, shrugging on his coat. He’s not the tallest guy, but more than capable of intimidation, what with his mugshot-friendly face and that grey scar that scythes vertically down his skull, stretching the blue skin into crinkles on either side. Lacking an arrow, he’s honed his musculature to compensate. Peter’s almost embarrassed on Kraglin’s behalf, and kicks his shin when Yondu yawns and criks his back, facing away from them and hoisting his arms above his head for an inelegant stretch.

“This damn thing throws yer body all outta joint,” he explains. “Worse than a flarkin’ warp drive.” And he gives the artifact a ringing flick. Drax automatically hauls Peter behind him, lest it malfunction again. That’s sweet and all. But considering he and Peter had been on other sides of the room with Gamora, Rocket, Kraglin and Groot between them, it isn't exactly pragmatic.

Peter rights Rocket with an apologetic grimace, brushing dust from his fur. Thank flark Gamora’d had the sense – and the fast reflexes – to grab Groot before Drax came barrelling through.

Yondu had frozen at the kerfuffle – still a little too fast to spook, too quick to flinch. Now his chipped navy nail hovers an inch from the activation button. Catching Peter’s headshake, he relocates it to his pocket. “Uh, no pokey the boxy?”

“No pokey the boxy,” Kraglin agrees, breathless from where he’d been tossed into the wall. He's still looking Yondu up and down, damn near licking him with his eyes. His smile is as hesitant as it’s goofy. “And um. See ya next year, I guess.”

“Mm-hm.” Yondu looks very much like he wants to say something else. He’d better hurry up though – Gamora had them down to five minutes on the clock, four-and-a-half minutes ago. When he talks, it’s addressed to the winking orange light on the artifact’s topside, and so faux-casual that even Drax picks up on the tone. “Hey, so. Kraglin. Issat a… common Hraxian name?”

Uh-oh.

Kraglin peels himself from his dent, wincing. “I guess?” he says, dodging Peter’s subtle attempt at kicking him. “Why?”

“Eh, nothin’. Just… Some scabious lil streetrat stowed away on one of my ships last time I was droppin’ off bootleg.” Yondu tipped his head, looking at Kraglin out of the corner of his eye. “Tough kid, ‘bout seventeen – though o'course he says he’s older. But he’s nifty as a pickpocket and fast with a knife too, so I’mma keep him around. Cant help but think though, when I look atcha…” Time crawls slower than plasma in a lava lamp as Yondu gives Kraglin a long, clinical scan. Then snorts and shakes his head. “Ain’t nothin’. Later.”

The artifact flashes. Yondu fades. Kraglin is left blinking at the Ravager-shaped silhouette, which lingers for the seconds between Yondu’s dispersal and re-emergence, its edges outlined in bright white like the corona around a star. “I am not scabious,” he protests. Next year’s Yondu catches the trailing edge of his words as he saunters out the box, Ravager flame sat proudly on his chest and a new implant glittering in his skull.

“Whassat, Kraggles? You ain’t got rabies?”

“Har-har. You’re hilarious, boss – uh. Yondu.” The slip earns Kraglin an elbow jab. This time, Peter doesn’t miss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Overdue, almost unedited, etc etc. I wanted to get it up to remind myself that this story is still A Thing, and to motivate me to work on the next lump of plot... I'll give it a proof read in the morning!**


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Peter learns about Peter**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's been a while! I discovered the rest of the chapters for this fic while procrastinating from editing the next chapter of **Straight Until Boiled** (which you should all read if you haven't already)**

Yondu, it turns out, has only been a captain for three weeks. He’s taking to leadership like a Beyonder unto the abyss beyond the Andromeda galaxy’s furthest stars. He’s already ousted one mutiny, scuppered and looted a Nova-bound freight ship, liberated a cargo-hold full of slaves (by complete accident, he assures them) and caused incalculable headaches and mayhem along the sub-Kree trade routes. He’s in his prime, and energetic with it. When Peter asks for the story of how he got his implant, he’s regaled with a whole flarking saga.

It involves shady pharmaceutical companies, experimental weapons procedures, and Yondu pretending he's a hell of a lot more stupid and helpless than he actually is. So, in short, his favorite style of conjob.

“And then I shot him in the face!” he finishes. “Boom! Just like that. Ya should've seen his expression – it was one for the history books.” He’s perched on the table in the center of the rec-room to ensure that he’s the focal point of any and all attention. Yondu’s a natural performer, and if there’s one thing this yearly excursion to the _Milano_ provides him with, it’s the chance to have an audience who hangs on his every word. (Or, in the case of Rocket, and Gamora, ignore him in favour of building pocket-sized incendiary devices and polishing swords, and whatever else it is they get up to in their spare time).

Only problem is, when that audience disagrees.

“Seem to remember it was, uh, that Kraglin kid that shot him actually,” fills in their other resident Ravager. “Before he could shoot you. Ow! Aw, for flark’s sake, Peter –“

Drax rests his hand on Peter’s thigh, preventing him from kicking Kraglin again – both with the weight of his palm, which is comparable to that of a small Kronan, and the resultant trickle of sparks that fill his crotch. No chance to enjoy it though.

Yondu twists at the waist, thinning his glare at the man he will one day name his second (possibly tomorrow, at the rate the years are progressing). The flush he'd showcased last time they met is nowhere to be found. This is a Yondu who's learned the hard way that what you feel must remain locked beneath the brash, bold projection you present to the world.

“An' what makes ya say that? You weren’t there.”

“Um…” Kraglin, realizing his mistake, jerks like he’s been shocked. “I um. Thought you just said…”

“I didn’t.”

“Okay. Must’ve misheard, is all.”

“Hey Yondu,” says Peter, before Yondu’s forehead can crease any further. Can't have him getting wrinkles before he's thirty. But Yondu's smelling fish – and not just from the scorched remnants of Gamora's latest dinner-attempt. It’s time for a distraction. “You got your arrow now, don’t you.” Probably hacked from the same yaka-block that's sitting in their hold. “What happens if you whistle along to a song?”

“We all die,” comes Yondu’s prompt response, the same one he’d made when Peter asked him that question twenty years ago, holding up his music box for inspection. But he pats the arrow, bound snug to his hip with leather straps, the tip of which pokes out from beneath his longcoat. And he smiles, tip of a silver fang nicking his lip.

“It feels good, doesn't it,” says Drax quietly, his first input into this conversation. “To have strength. To be able to protect those you care about.” The hand on Peter's thigh tightens, kneading the flesh. Peter, faking a yawn to distract those who might be paying attention, drops his own on top of it.

Yondu isn't nearly so beguiled by Drax's bold declarations of sentiment. He snorts, rolling his eyes so hard he almost loses them in the back of his head.

“Flark off! I don't protect nobody but me. If my boys fall behind, they get left behind – it's the Ravager way!”

He sounds _proud_ about it too. Peter, who occasionally feels a twinge of longing for the Good Old Days where it was him and Yondu and Kraglin buccaneering side-by-side (tempered by his admittance that those Old Days were never as Good as hindsight made them appear, and if there was any rosy tint to them it came from diluted blood) wants to cuff him around the head and bestow the lesson that running with the Guardians has taught him. There _is_ such a thing as toxic self-reliance.

 _Pushing everyone away doesn't make you strong,_ he wants to say. _It just makes you alone._

But after what he's seen of Yondu's adolescence, he finds himself hesitant to judge. Maybe, after all that bowing and scraping and performing gods-knew what horrors for the enjoyment of others, feeling independent is just what Yondu needs.

“What about us?” he asks instead. “Would you come back for us?”

“Hmph. Only if ya paid me.”

Drax's disapproving huff is prevented from turning into an all-out scolding by the squeeze of Peter's palm. He waits until the big guy has shifted and resettled, before treating Yondu to an earnest look, one which lasts until Yondu's smug grin fades. He's not joking, and he wants Yondu to know that. When he says “Well, we'll always come for you. No matter what.” he means every word.

Yondu breaks his gaze, dismissing him with a regal flick of the head. “Sentiment,” he scoffs. But despite his earlier flippancy, when it's time for Yondu to leave his gaze lingers on all of them a little too long.

“If you'd come back for me, I'd come back for you,” he tells Peter, as the Gamora quietly intones the countdown -

“Five, four, three...”

Yondu shuffles his feet, rubbing his upper lip to hide the scowl. “Just to pay that debt, y'know. It's the Ravager Way.”

“The Ravager Way,” Peter repeats. And for once, he's smiling as he says it.

 

* * *

 

Rocket takes it upon himself to greet the next iteration. “'Sup, ya ugly blue turd.”

Yondu wags a finger, although his grin reigns toothily supreme. “Hey, ya can't talk to me like that no more. I'm a father now.”

He says it so casually. So openly. Just a tease, nothing more – and yet. _And yet._

Peter’s heart throbs in his throat. “What?”

“Ya heard me. Just picked up a cute lil’ blighter, earthbound kid whose daddy couldn't be bothered to swing by and nab him hisself. Think I’m gonna keep him.”

There’s silence in the cabin. Peter wonders if the others are thinking, as he is, that Yondu’s far too damn _young._ He's – what? Twenty-something. Twenty-five? And immature with it, as if to make up for those years lost to the Badoon. Peter knows, objectively, that Yondu was younger than he is now when he first scrawled Peter’s name in the crew roster and dumped an oversized coat on his head. But it’s never really sunk in. Not until this moment. And suddenly, his mind is awash with recollections.

Screaming for help that never came. Pounding the hatch that'd gushed closed beneath his feet after the tractor beam worked its magic, hollering until his head throbbed and his nose ran and his face was gross and splotchy, shiny with snot and tears.

Boots, big boots that had looked humongous back then, had stomped to fill his watery vision. Those same boots didn't look nearly so large now, wrapped around Yondu's feet. But to an eight year old's mind, they'd been massive. He'd followed them up, eyes crisscrossing along the straps until he reached shin-guards, a leather belt with a big brassy buckle embossed with a flame, some strange holster-like contraption, a red coat, a ragged collar, a bright blue face...

He didn't remember much of the next five minutes. Later, Yondu would assure him that he'd screamed until he was sick.

“What’s he like?” he croaks.

Yondu shrugs, smile bright like he's been asked to describe his favorite puppy dog. “Small. Pink like you. Hella cute. Noisy too, with a music box like yours. If he ain’t cryin’ he’s singing along to it, but he ain’t all that tuneful.”

“Well how’s he supposed to improve if you keep shouting at him to shut up?”

Whoops. Hadn’t meant to let that slip.

Yondu blinks. He looks Peter up and down, eyes lingering on the patch that’s been restitched over his bicep.

“Y’know,” he says slow enough to be menacing. “Last time the damn brat told me to dance with him, an' I told him to flark off an' find someone else to pester... He said only Kevin Bacon could remove the stick from my butt.”

Behind him, Gamora snorts. Peter valiantly tries to clamp down on his blush, but in the end can only hope the greasy light from the solar panels doesn’t reveal how scarlet he’s become. Yondu continues, eyes a little too innocent.

“Do Terrans often remove sticks from each other's butts, Kev? Is that just how y'all say hello? M'guessing this is the same, uh, 'mighty folk hero' yer named after, yeah?”

“N-no, I –“ Beyond besmirching the sacred name of Kevin Bacon, this whole conversation’s steering a little too close to revelation territory for Peter to be comfortable with. He flounders over his words, making a muddle of vowels and consonants. It’s Drax who comes to his rescue, hand bowing Peter’s shoulder under it’s weight.

“My friend,” he says, carefully skirting all use of Peter’s name. “While I too would remove a stick from someone’s butt if I saw them in pain – to do otherwise would be cruel –“ Gamora makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle; heavily suppressed but unmistakable. “-I suspect this is one of your innuendos. Please know that the only _butt_ you are permitted to put your stick in belongs to me.”

If Peter’s cheeks get any hotter, they’re going to catch alight. “Jesus, Drax,” he whimpers.

“Jesus is not my name. Is that the name of the man you have stuck your stick up the butt of? I will find him, and rest assured…” Drax’s palm closes; Peter’s shoulder screams. “…I will crush him.”

What a perfect time for Drax to master the euphemism. Peter would be elated, if he were only watching someone else in his position.

“Drax,” he squeaks, shrugging in a silent plea for the big guy’s fingers to loosen. “Bedroom. Now please.” He cuts off Yondu and Kraglin’s synchronized _oooohs_ with a look. “Oh yeah, you two are in no place to judge. I’m not eating at my placemat for another year. Flarking disgusting –“

“Why aren’t you eating at your placemat?” Drax asks.

Oh yeah. They’ve been keeping the details of _that_ jaunt from him, because Kraglin doesn't want to be disembowlled and Peter doesn’t want to have to redecorate.

“No reason, buddy,” he says, patting Drax’s back and glaring at Kraglin and Yondu as if to say _you better respect the bullet I’m taking here._ Kraglin looks suitably cowed; Yondu only laughs harder. “C’mon. Let’s leave these idiots and have us some quality alone-time.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry for the massive delay - I completely forgot how much of this fic I had written! There will be a hiatus coming up, and on a massive cliffhanger at that - but we have a while to go before then.....**


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which our slow burn finally makes a bonfire**

Their alone time is quality indeed. Gamora even solders the lock pannel shut on the bunk-room door, so there's no way Rocket can pop it 'by accident'.

This dorm is gonna get mighty crowded, without Kraglin's ship to bolster their cabin space. But he and Yondu have already proven that they're capable of making anywhere their bed. Peter figures they can tough it up and snuggle on the floor.

He tugs on Drax's hand. “Which bunk, big guy?”

Drax considers, weighing his options with typical gravitas. “I believe,” he rumbles finally, having assessed their stacked beds from every angle, “that we are less likely to break the lower.”

That's logic Peter can't argue with. He grins and hops onto the mattress, tugging Drax after him. The springs creak and the whole contraption bows as Drax clambers on. But as they hold their breaths the bed resettles under them, and they share a grin.

“Floor'd be safer,” Peter says. Drax shakes his head. He rolls onto his back, his lone pillow tumbling after him as the bed slopes dramatically in his direction, and pats the chest Peter's been dreaming of laying on for weeks.

“I desire your comfort, Quill.”

“And I 'desire' you. But please. When we're like this?” Peter accepts the invitation, crawling along the valley between Drax's parted knees. It's cramped to say the least. M-ships aren't built for fucking on (not that that's ever stopped Peter before). Add to this that both of them have muscle to spare, and Peter's back is brushing the underside of the pallet above? Awkward yoga may be required.

But all problems are rectified when Peter bends at the waist, catching Drax's mouth with his.

“Call me Peter.”

 

* * *

 

Tranquillity. It makes Peter think of a glacial lake, smooth and black, not a ripple to distort the waters. But as any biologist can tell you, there is always life, no matter how calm the surface: a teeming, thriving, throbbing hustle of evolution.

Peter hadn't known much tranquillity as a Ravager. He's known impossibly less as a Guardian. There's always another job to take, another slave cartel to disrupt or conquered planet to liberate, or babified ex-captain to save from his blood-baying crew. Yet he can't find better words to describe the rest of that steamy, indefinable time, where it's him and Drax, basking in each other's company, alone without interruption.

They migrate to the floor. Eventually. But they stay on the bed plenty long enough for Peter to acquire bruises, the shape of the slats imprinted into his back.

He winces, rotating his shoulder. Drax moves with him, as attuned to the mass of his body as co-orbitant stars. He unsticks his arm from Peter's waist, giving him room to work out the kink, then replaces it without needing to be told.

Peter snuggles into his side, cushioning one cheek on a scar-puckered pectoral. He doesn't have to imagine what they feel like anymore. He can just reach out and _touch,_ and damn if that thought isn't enough to inspire a second round...

But no. For today, this is enough. Drax is warm, Drax is happy, Drax is sated – so Peter is too.

He twists at the neck, bumping Drax's chin with his nose until the big guy grants him a kiss.

“A toast to my surprise adoption, twenty five years and a few weeks ago.” He tosses one thigh across Drax's, the line of their bodies edging that smidgen closer to unbearably sweaty. Drax pulls away – just far enough to ensure Peter's smiling. Then he drops a hand on his nape to drag him down once more, as if localized gravity has increased tenfold.

“Cheers,” he says, like Peter's taught him. The word rumbles through his chest. And just like that tranquil lake, while there aren't any ripples on the surface, with one hand cupped over Drax's heart Peter can feel the thrum of life within.

 

* * *

 

It can't last though. Sod's law, or the Andromedarian equivalent.

They make their pit-stop on Knowhere, planning to hit a few bars, as is customary, maybe roust a few a-holes with bounties and leave them trussed on the doorstep of the nearest Nova outpost. They're only there for as long as it takes to refuel. Peter hopes it'll minimize the impact they have on the dockworkers, whose memories are surprisingly flexible, able to sponge up and disregard information at will when there are unit chits on the line.

He should've known better. Five Guardians and two Ravagers are never gonna make a quiet entrance – especially not when one of those Ravagers is from twenty-five years ago.

For this reason, Peter decrees that Yondu's gonna sit this one out. Yondu, predictably, isn't happy.

“Dammit _dad,_ ” he says, outfitting that word with so much sneer that Peter couldn't take him seriously if he wanted to. “You ain't leaving me here. I ain't some pet you can lock up when you don't wanna play with it.”

That strikes worryingly close to the glimpses the Guardians' snatched of Yondu's past, during that long and brutal week before his fin was hacked off at the root and Yondu bundled into Ravager reds. Peter firms his frown regardless, towering over the Ravager captain. Yondu's evidently used to being postured at by folks a fair margin bigger than he is. He raises an eyebrow as he squares Peter up, looking every bit as unimpressed as Peter used to when Yondu told him that no, he wasn't allowed to blast _Hooked on a Feeling_ at full volume when it was his turn to monitor the Bridge, and _no,_ he most definitely wasn't allowed to sing along.

It's strange. This whole situation is strange – Peter's more than aired his thoughts on that. But having Yondu glower up at him where he used to glower _down,_ is like being immersed in an echoing bell-jar, memories and recollections colliding uncannily with the present.

Unlike when he was a child, cowed by the threat of the stewpot, Peter doesn't admit defeat. “No,” he says, hands parked on hips. “You're not going. And that's final. Kraglin can stay, if you want.”

Kraglin, who's been watching the altercation with a grin usually reserved for the Orloni-baiting rings that populate Knowhere's grotty underjaw, gapes for a moment before pushing off the wall and striding over, coming to his own defence. “For flark's sake, Quill. You ain't the boss of me -”

“I don't mind,” says Yondu, a touch too fast. When the rest of them turn to crook eyebrows, he rectifies himself with a derisive scoff. “Don't need you boring a-holes to party anyway. Right Kraggles?”

“Right,” Kraglin agrees instinctively, although his gaze flits to Drax and his coloration gets impossibly more wan. “You an' me. Alone. Unsupervised -”

Drax's fist almost puts a hole through the _Milano's_ outer shell. He halts at the last minute, remembering firstly that the more prolonged their repairs on Knowhere, the more time Yondu has to go exploring and get himself shanked in a back alley; and secondly that this vessel is almost as precious to Peter as his Walkman, and while Drax means a hell of a lot to him, if it came to a toss-up between him and the _Milano_ the odds wouldn't necessarily swing in his favor. He props the culprit hand on his waist instead. Then, after a moment's thought, drops it to crush Peter's shoulder, using him as a stressball.

Better him than Kraglin. But still – ouch.

“Ravager. I need not describe what will occur should you conduct anything untoward in my absence...”

Yondu frowns. He looks to the looming Destroyer, the wilting Kraglin, and back again. “Hey now! Whas' all this? You got a grudge against my buddy here, big guy?”

Drax doesn't glance at him, too busy scowling at Kraglin. The Ravager mate does a remarkable impression of a petrified mouse for a man the top of whose mohawk crests six-four. “This hairy creature would make free with your body -”

Oh lord. Peter's flustered slapping at Drax's biceps and hissed whispers of “God Drax, shut up” are eclipsed by Yondu's guffaw.

“Oh _honeybunch,_ ” he says, wiping tears once he's spat the laugh out of his system. “You are somethin', alright. Honestly. You jackasses raise my sorry blue ass for one day every year -” Groot gasps, prompting Yondu to point at him in acknowledgement. “Oh yeah. Ain't dumb enough that I didn't figure that one out. But see here, tough guy. Just because I clung to ya when I weren't old enough to know better, it don't mean I need you to protect me now. Goddit? I'm a big boy. Run my own Ravager horde and everything.” He raps the flame on his chest, which puffs to fill the tattered overcoat of his predecessor. “Flark, I'm twenty. Uh. Something. Kinda lost track in the middle there. But I'm too old for a chaperone, sure as the stars are bright.”

Drax's expression ossifies. He looms over Kraglin – impressive, from the other side of the room. Kraglin stands taller now Yondu's between them, but still looks ready to bolt should Drax so much as twitch towards his knife sheathe.

“There shall,” he threatens in a rumbling growl that makes gooseflesh prickle to attention all along Peter's body, “be no hanky-panky. None whatsoever.” Oh, how Peter regrets teaching him that euphemism. “Are we understood?”

Kraglin makes to nod along, but Yondu hooks him by the wrist before he can scarper. “Uh, no way, buddy. Anyway, ain't that a bit hypocritical, comin' from you?”

The ships' occupants go suddenly, gut-droppingly quiet. Even the creaks of the docking cranes beyond the dusty porthole window fade – although Peter knows this to be a trick of the ears, as he can see the crank and grind of their chains, hoisting crates of cargo best left undisclosed onto and off of the port.

“You,” says Drax, soft and dangerous in a way his voice hasn't been around Yondu since the last time the man was adult-sized and chasing them from system to system. “ _Dare._ Call me. Hypocrite?”

Yondu shrugs, examining his chipped blue nails. “Well yeah, after last night. Yer moans made the goddam ship rattle.” He leans in with a conspiratorial wink. “Don'tchu go spreadin' this around, but I ain't exactly the big bad top I make out to be.”

“True,” Kraglin vouches. Despite the situation at hand, he dons a sleazy grin – although that's stifled sharpish when Drax glowers. “Uh, maybe you should get to the point boss – um. Yondu.”

“Please do,” growls Rocket, having slapped fuzzy paws over Groot's ears just in time. The little tree looks quizzically up at them – then wisely decides that he doesn't want to know.

“I am Groot.”

“Yeah, they're bein' gross. Don'tchu worry.”

“Point is,” Yondu continues as though he hasn't heard, “I ain't no stranger to makin' noise.”

“Also true,” Kraglin says again. It's somewhat unnecessary at this point, and he snaps his mouth shut at Peter's glare, shrugging in self-conscious apology. Yondu ignores him.

“So buddy, it comes from a very personal place when I tell ya that'chu gotta keep it down.” He raps his chest, right over the captain's patch. His knuckles scrape the tacking stitches that hold the flame to the leather, grin an assortment of mottled yellows. “Think of those of us who're tryin' to keep up our beauty sleep. Can't go ruinin' this pretty face with wrinkles.”

Drax's mouth opens and shuts.

“I... I...”

Peter decides that now would be an excellent time to bungle the unlocking procedure for the hangar doors. He cusses as he punches the wrong number, green light flaring angry red.

Gamora sighs, pushing from her lean on the tube-lined wall. She sashays over, bringing a waft of perfume offset by the alkali tang of her last cooking attempt. Shunting Peter to one side, she pokes in the code and accepts his pink-cheeked mumble of “thanks” with a regal nod. She's first out, not even waiting for the gangway to unreel. Her heels squelch in the muck as she lands, straightens, and saunters away without looking back.

Poor woman has never been the most social. After spending so long on an overpopulated M-ship, she must be wrangling the urge to strangle them all on an hourly basis. Peter ponders what her poison will be – whether she'll pick a fight, make a bet, get pissed or head to the brothels. Somehow, he can't imagine Gamora doing any of those things. Who knows – perhaps she's headed to find a dark, quiet alcove in the Celestial's sinuses, where she can polish her swords and meditate in peace.

Once upon a time, Drax would've joined her. Now though, he stays by Quill's side, interlacing their fingers even as Peter makes to untangle them, an endless cat's-cradle of grey and peach.

“Yes,” he says. The low timbre catches the attention of a few itinerant workers as they slope about their days, overalls saturated with Celestial bile and worse. “Me and Peter Quill had sex last night.”

Peter pales. “Oh lord.”

He's expecting the remaining Ravagers-plus-Guardians ensemble to groan and pull a variety of disgusted faces. He's not expecting Yondu to jerk like he's poked an engine rod.

“Peter... Quill?” His eyes are glassy with surprise. Unfortunately, it only lasts a moment – not long enough for Peter to cook up an excuse. Then they thin to pink slivers, the mouth below halfway between a snarl and a whistle. “Well, whaddaya know. Think you got some explaining to do, boyo.”

 _I'm older than you,_ Peter wants to snap. _For now._ But correcting Yondu on his semantics doesn't distract from the problem at hand.

_He knows._

“Shit,” says Peter. And then, with one final point at Yondu and an adamant “Stay!” he enacts his favorite method of problem resolution. He grabs Drax by the hand and runs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **They did the do! (yay!)**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Yondu found out! (nay!)**  
>   
> 
> ****
> 
> ****  
> **Whatever could happen next??**  
>   
> 
> ****


	39. Chapter 39

“Still runnin' away from his problems,” Yondu observes philosophically. “Some things never change.” 

He doesn't barge past Kraglin and onto the docks, bawling for Peter to  _ get back here and face me like a man.  _ Doesn't even use Kraglin and Rocket's shock as an opportunity to flee. Not that he needs to – his arrow has accompanied him to this timeline, and should he truly wish to explore Knowhere's myriad dingy delights, Rocket and Kraglin would already be skewered. His gaze flits to them now, as Kraglin wrings his hands and gnaws his underlip raw, and Rocket tries to pretend that Drax's revelation doesn't change a thing, Groot hiding behind his hind paw. Yondu's smile is of a grisly sort that foretells screams. 

“If ya want me to stay put, you'd better spin me a damn fine yarn. Startin' with who you are, why I'm here, and what the everlovin'  _ flark  _ is goin' on.” He waves his hand dismissively at Kraglin when he makes to speak though. “Not you, sweetheart. You're Kraglin flarkin' Obfonteri alright – I'd know that spineless smell from the other side of the galaxy.”

Which is all kinds of unfair – Kraglin is without doubt a vertebrate. You can see every knobble in his backbone in good lighting. But Kraglin knows better than to argue with his captain while he's in a bad mood; he bites down on his comeback and slouches over the chair at Yondu's side. Both of their glares turn on Rocket, expectant.

“So, lil' fuzzball,” Yondu begins. Rocket's teeth champ.

“I gotta name.”

“Mm-hm. Would I know it if ya told me? Are ya secretly Half-Nut? Did Tazie get hit by a shrink-ray and forget to shave for a year?”

Eyes rolling, Rocket stomps up to the table, leaving Groot by the airlock – who promptly sits, wringing his woody little hands but understanding the unspoken order to stay. Rocket swarms the tableleg, neglecting Kraglin's awkward offer of assistance. He plonks himself down at its center, facing Yondu with arms crossed. 

“Ain't nothin' so fancy. Fact is, blue, this right here's the future. You're the only one who's been shrunk. Although you regrew again – fortunately. I ain't no frutarkin' plush toy.” He's probably the only person to prefer Yohndu's adult self – Kraglin discounted.

Yondu's smirk stretches ear to ear. “Aw, but you're so  _ fluffy... _ ”

Rocket levels a claw. “Pick yer favorite eye. You touch me, you lose it.”

“Adorable!” Yondu twists to pin Kraglin with a grin – one that precludes blowing up innocent trade ships and adopting young Terrans, and other such terrible decisions that no amount of reasoned argument can talk him out of. “Can we get one?”

“Maybe for the stewpot. Ask me again after yer all grown up, sir.”

Yondu's chuckle is almost drowned out by Rocket's sputters. He peers at Kraglin from the corner of each eye, like he's trying to see something that'll flit out of sight if he looks at it full-frontal, then gives in and squints at him directly. “S'funny,” he says, chin propped on his hand. “Y'know. Seeing you like this.”

Kraglin clears his throat. His cheeks pink under the stubble, and his eyes skirt the length of Yondu's young, slim, twenty-five-year-old body – flung over his claimed chair with legs lolled wide and hands hooked behind his head like he's reclining on a sun-strewn beach – before snapping forcibly to his face. “Um. Same.”

“I mean,” continues Yondu, either oblivious or making a good affectation. “You're still the same. Jus' different. Older. More, uh. Mature.” He sits forwards on his chair. “So I gotta know. My Kraggles ain't much more than a brat himself. Bout nineteen, ugly as hell, kicks up a right fuss when we don't let him on the Nav decks.” He ignores Kraglin's stutters of denial, pointing between them with a waspish grin. “So at what point do we...? Do you an' I...? I mean, uh...”

“And that's my cue,” says Rocket, hopping to the floor. He scoops up Groot, setting him astride his shoulder and stalking for the exit. “Have fun; use protection; if ya get the table messy you clear it up.”

“-Do the nookie-nookie?” Yondu finishes, satisfied that Kraglin's face is fluorescent red and won't lose its coloration for another half-hour. “Y'know. Again?” But as he waves Rocket off, his face splits into a broad, toothy, and very self-satisfied grin. “So long, fuzzball!”

Kraglin crosses his arms. Struggles to look authoritative. “Okay, you got rid of him. Now what?”

“Now?” Yondu's grin didn't waver, although it did become a little more reminiscent of a bilgesnipe's. “Well, I got some ideas...”

 

* * *

Peter walks at Drax's side for ten whole minutes before he gathers the will to speak – or at least, to speak in more than aborted mouth-gestures, followed swiftly by emphatic and despondent declarations of “flark”. 

Drax bears this with a patience that'd be condescending, coming from anyone else. Eventually though, he steers Peter into a dark abscess between two ancient phlegm nodules, pushes him against the mildewed wall (ignoring the squeak of protest as stickiness transfers to his jacket) and gives him a gentle shake. Gentle only by his standards. Peter's head bounces off the wall. He groans, pulling a face at the gunk that's gluing his hair together.

“Gee thanks, buddy. Now I gotta shower again. For the second time this week!” He catches Drax's raised eyebrow. “Yeah, just because Ravagers only shower once a month at most doesn't mean I have to. Who do you think I am, some sort of  _ barbarian? _ ”

“Peter,” says Drax solemnly. His face, usually craggy with scar tissue and scowls, is smoothed by the poor lighting. The scars are more reflective than the rest of his grey hide, which is tough as a rhino's and, as Peter has discovered, about as abrasive. (On cue, he shifts his weight to his other boot, wincing at the chafe in his underwears. He's sure glad they stock medicream on ship.)

He manages a smile. “Yes, darling?”

“I believe something is troubling you.”

“No shit, darling.”

Drax peers quizzically down. He assesses the mulched garbage around their boots, which clogs their chosen alcove like the cheesy pus in an infected blister. “Indeed, I do not believe there to be human excrement among this waste – although this is certainly an unhygienic location. Perhaps we should reconvene...”

Peter grabs his cheeks between his palms, forcing Drax's gaze back to him, where it belongs. He adores the heaviness of the jaw against his lovelines, unstubbled yet rough, just as he adores the niggle of confusion twitching between Drax's  brows. “Forget the shit, baby. And yes, I'm troubled. I'm troubled that Yondu knows who I am. That this might change things. Change... everything.”

Drax blinks at him. “Why would it?”

“Because...” How does he explain this? How does he put it across in a way the Destroyer might understand? “Because I feel like me and Yondu... Y'know, younger-Yondu. I feel like we're just starting to become  _ friends.  _ On like. An equal platform. This? This breaks the platform, Drax.”

“It does?” The epiphany dawns over Drax's befuddled frown like the light from the overhead neon casino sign, cracked at one corner and dripping fluorescent liquid to puddle amid the stagnant garbage that litters Knowhere's streets. “The platform is a metaphor.”

“Yes, Drax. Yes, the platform's a metaphor.” Peter rubs a tired palm over his stubble, prickles biting between the gun-callouses. “What I'm trying to say is, for a few days there it was Yondu and Me. Y'know? Like,  _ just  _ Yondu and  _ just  _ me. Not the captain and his Terran pet. Not the Guardian and the Ravager. Just... people.”

Drax inclines his head, although his brow remains puckered with the effort of understanding. “You could relate to him.”

“Yes! Just like that.” It feels stupid to be proud every time he conveys a complex concept to his friend – aw, what the hell; his  _ lover.  _ Let's make it official. And yet, Peter is. There are all sorts of barriers between him and Drax, be they of language or race or culture. Bridging the first is a small step, all things considered. But dammit, Peter actually  _ gives a damn  _ about this relationship. He'll celebrate every snippet of progress, and if Rocket wants to scoff and roll his eyes that's his own damn business.

...Kinda like he is right now, actually. “What're you doing here?” Peter asks, standing on tiptoes to peep over Drax's shoulder. Rocket is exaggeratedly miming tapping his paws and looking at his non-existent watch. Groot, clinging to the thick fur around his scruff, giggles and waves. Peter crooks his fingers in return. “I mean, not that I don't relish every second spent in your presence, buddy. But aren't you supposed to be back on the  _ Milano?  _ Y'know, explaining...”

“Explainin' what you was too chicken to?” Rocket finishes. Peter decides now is not the time to launch enquiries as to whether Rocket  _ actually  _ knows what a chicken is, or if that's just another of his translator's many quirks. “An' yeah. We was, weren't we, Groot?”

Groot pleeps his agreement.

“...But then they started gettin' all mushy and flirty and shit. And you couldn't pay me a million galactic credits to watch that!” Rocket pauses. Reassesses. Acknowledges Peter's disbelieving scoff with a snout-twitch and a shrug. “Okay, yeah. For a million credits, I would. But I wouldn't enjoy it!”

“Well, that thought'll be haunting me tonight,” Peter mutters. Then goes abruptly wan. “So you left him unattended with Kraglin? At the dining table?”

There's an ominous pause. Then Drax asks: “Why would that be a problem?”

Peter resists the urge to bang his head off the nearest wall – but only because he doesn't know if Celestial mucus is toxic. “C'mon,” he growls, shouldering past Drax and stomping to take point. “Let's go salvage my décor. Or what's left of it – because I'm giving the  _ Milano  _ a bath in caustic acid after this.”

Only by the time they reach the  _ Milano, _ which  looks pristine only in comparison to the surrounding miscellany of ships, all of them rusted and creaking and more likely to collapse under their own gravity than undertake a successful spaceflight, Peter's décor proves to be the last of their worries. 

“Shit,” is all Peter can think to say, as he surveys the empty hold. Kraglin and Yondu have been here, and until recently. Their presence is revealed by the dirty boot scuffs on the floor and the remains of a tankard best left unidentified, which Peter gives a swill, wishing he'd stayed at school long enough to read some detective stories that might've hinted at where to go from here. No signs of a scuffle – or at least, none of a violent nature. No scour-marks in his walls, neither from arrows nor Kraglin's knives. They won't have been gutted by Ravagers, not when none of Tasie’s crew know the  _ Milano's  _ course. But the chance that that course will be made note of increases with every minute they remain in the desecrated Celestial's skull.

This was supposed to be a short pitstop, their landing gear touching down only as long as it took to refuel. It's swiftly descending into a nightmare.

“Flark,” he says, curtailing Drax's attempts at reassurance and Rocket's angry deflection, as the little guy tries to convince himself this isn't his fault. Which, to be fair, it isn't – and Peter's sure he'll recognize that, as soon as he has Yondu secured in his hold. Tied to a chair, if necessary – because Peter wouldn't put it by him to try a stunt like this again. 

Dammit! He thought he'd impressed on them – or at least, on Kraglin – the dangers of this, should Yondu be killed? It's not just their lives that'll be forfeit. It's every sorry sod who's made their home in this galaxy – Kree, Xandarian, Skrull and the infinite hodgepodge of races in between. 

Because if Xandar falls, then who knows where Ronan might've turned his tyrannical eye next? If there's one thing Peter's learned about power, it's that you can never get enough of it. Once you've had that first taste, you're addicted – and between Ronan and Thanos, the Infinity Stone crisis might have escalated into all-out war, with entire star-systems as collateral. 

He can't let that happen. Both as a Guardian of the Galaxy, and as Yondu's sort-of son.

“We split up,” he says. “We comb this flarking head cranium to jaw, and we  _ find them,  _ before something else does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I live for commentz**


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu makes terrible decisions and Peter heads in the wrong direction.**

Yondu's idea of fun tends to revolve around trinket shopping, petty acts of thievery, sex, and sampling moonshine from every quadrant until they can't stand up, let alone walk straight. Therefore, Kraglin's not surprised when his captain ticks off the plan on his fingers:

“Bar. Market. Bed. You in?”

He should say no. He should warn Yondu that this is a stupid idea, one liable to get the lot of them dead. He should tell him just what high stakes they’re gambling with.

But then what? Would Yondu shirk his company and strike out alone? As he says, he's only known Kraglin for a handful of years. Long enough for them to have each other's backs, but not long enough to... Well, do what comes third on Yondu's agenda.

Speaking of, Captain's meandered ahead while Kraglin was mulling over the offering, evidently expecting him to fall in line. Kraglin conforms, as usual, lengthening his stride until they're abreast. He probably actually kept his natural gait for a few seconds there – it only felt hurried because he's so used to shortening his steps.

Yondu grins at him over one shoulder. It's a cornucopia of yellows, golds, and silver, and it promises fun in a thousand conspiratorial ways. If Kraglin had a heart, it'd be melting a little at the sight of that toothy smirk being directed at him, properly, for the first time in twenty-five days. But there's something he's gotta ask.

He clears his throat. “Um. We're not. In your timeline. We're not yet, are we?”

Yondu saunters through the crowd, not bothering to watch where he's going. He expects the miners to get out of his way – which they do, with assorted whispers and stares, as the young Ravager captain swaggers along the dock as if he owns every ship there. More than one conjectures on how much he paid for the rejuvenation surgery.

Yondu lets them breeze him by. “We ain’t. Whassit to ya?”

Kraglin hunches in his jumpsuit. “And yer sure you really wanna be... With me?”

Yondu glances at him. Scoffs. “Well, not if yer gonna be such a wet flarkin' noodle about it. I mean, you – the you I know – he's practic'cly a kid. Still got all his teeth!” He sounds offended at the concept. Kraglin manages a smile.

“S'okay. You punch one out soon enough.”

“Huh. Must've pissed me off that day.”

“Told you yer ass looked damn sweet in leather, sir. Front of the entire Bridge crew.” He catches Yondu's disbelieving blink, and hastens to add: “You were the one what got me drunk.”

Yondu catches himself, swallowing his gape with a snort. “Yer lucky I didn't kill ya.”

“Yeah, you said that back then too.” Kraglin smirks. “Guess you've always been soft on me, sir.” He ducks the hook without looking, and the elbow jab that follows. Neither notice the hum of facial recognition software, as the old crone in miner-garb manning a protein slops booth surreptitiously scans them as they walk by.

They do notice her sharp intake of breath. It'd be hard not too; air wheezes up her throat like steam hissing from a kettle, tumours and clagged particulates turning her airways into an assault course. But she fakes a coughing fit, and they shrug and go back to their attempts to stomp on each other's toes as they walk.

The crone waits until they're out of sight before levering herself from her perch, cussing vibrantly enough to make the miners wince. She hobbles over the filthy, bile-splattered road, eyes set on the broadcasting hut opposite. She has a message for Captain Taserface – in exchange for a portion of the bounty, of course.

 

* * *

“So yer tellin' me we can't blast off without them -”

“Well, of course we can't! Not unless you want to, oh I dunno, _let half the galaxy be eaten by entropy if Yondu's killed before he helps save Xandar._ Sound good?”

Rocket's surprised by the ascorbic bite of Peter's words. They all are. Gamora even makes to touch him, her delicate face scrunched in a frown. “Quill -”

“Gerroff me.” He shoulders away, crossing to stand besides Drax – who, despite his complete lack of anything approaching perceptiveness, gets the gist that right now, a comforting hand on the back would do more harm than good.

Peter glowers at the conspicuous gap on the table where the Artifact had sat. Because _of course_ they had to pocket that, too. As if this isn't dangerous enough already, without the added threat of that gizmo falling into the wrong hands. Now, once the clock hits the intergalactic equivalent of ten pm, Yondu'll rematerialize offship, and the Guardians will be none-the-wiser as to his whereabouts.

Why did they run? Boredom?

Stupid Ravager rules about self-sufficiency are also a likely culprit. After all, Yondu's big enough and bold enough to command a band of bloodthirsty space-pirates. It's not like he needs the Guardians to babysit. He probably takes their looking out for him as an insult – which is all kinds of dumb and aggravating, but also undeniably Yondu-like.

Kraglin though... Peter'd expected him to know better. He understands the stakes better than Yondu ever could. Even if they've told him that his death could lead to a galactic-scale disaster, that won't mean that much to him, as it wouldn't mean much to anyone who didn't take part in the battle of Xandar. The scope of that had been beyond anything Peter'd faced before. It could've gone so wrong. If Peter had dived for the stone a second later; if he'd let it touch the ground...

He likes to think it was a noble move. All self-sacrifice and martyrdom. But he knows it was more like how a goalkeeper instinctively throws themselves after a ball.

Peter hadn't been thinking. Hadn't contemplated the significance of what it meant to snatch an Infinity Stone out of the air with his frail mortal hands. He'd just _done it,_ and averted a whole lot of deaths in the process.

He can't let Yondu undo that, just because the idjit wants a drink without the Guardians breathing down his neck. He won't.

“C'mon,” he growls, cinching his holsters higher up his waist. “Let's go find those a-holes. Preferably _before_ they get themselves killed.”

Such is easier said than done. But Peter's been herding Ravagers since he was old enough to shoot a gun – i.e., nine. He knows all the old blue git's favorite haunts. Even if that old blue git is currently a decade his junior, Peter doubts anything will have changed too much.

Knowhere has the sort of well-worn grime that suggests it's been this scummy, skeezy place since time immemorial. And grub, betting, booze and whores can only breed Ravagers. Peter just has to comb through each dive bar until he finds his captain: a girl on each leg, a drink in each hand, Kraglin lurking by his side.

Peter stalks to the door. He glares up the porous cliff-face that was once the inside of a Celestial eyesocket. “Let's start from the top,” he growls.

 

* * *

 

“Y'know what?”

Yondu's slurring, the arm slung over Kraglin's shoulder too hot and too heavy. Like hell would Kraglin shrug it off though. Not for all the units in the galaxy.

Well – okay, maybe then, in that highly unlikely scenario. But it'd be close.

“M'thinkin' we should head to the bottom. Les hit Hoggie's next.”

“His name's Hogarth, cap'n.” Kraglin jostles the drunk centaurian higher up his side, having to lean dramatically to counterbalance. Yondu ain't the loftiest fella about, but he's got muscle where Kraglin's got twig, and when he's floppy like this, hauling him around's about as easy as lugging a mansize ragdoll-cat. “Y'know he hates being called Hoggie.”

Yondu's chortle is loud – it draws the attention of their fellow drinkers, who raise assorted eyebrows, forehead-horns and antennae, and go back to their flagons.

The Ravager captain is well known, around these parts. Seeing him off his rocker is rare though. Yondu's lived through too many mutinies to party up in public. But as he's alone with his first mate, there's nothing horrendously jarring about this picture. A little _odd,_ perhaps. Especially given how young the captain looks – although the poor lighting and the dopey smile on Yondu's face as he sags onto Kraglin and forces the scrawnier man to hook both hands under his armpits to keep him upright, goes a way to disguise that.

“C'mon boss,” he grumbles, tilting Yondu in the direction of the door and letting gravity do the rest. “Hoggie's waiting."

Hoggie is indeed waiting – but not for them. He glances up when they enter, rubbing circles on the glass he's cleaning like he's looking to wear through to the other side. His upturned nose sniffles from side to side, making the ring bounce on his septum.

“Udonta! Heard you was dead. Even cracked open an ol' whiskey bottle to celebrate...”

Yondu points a tipsy finger. Kraglin's kind enough to turn him so it's aimed at Hogarth, rather than whatever double-image his captain's projecting onto the bottles behind him. “Well, you better have saved some of it! Cause rumors of my death've been... have been grossly exag... uh... They've been bigged up real bad, is what's happened. Now gimme a drink.”

If Hogarth had eyebrows, they'd be raised. “You look like you've had enough.”

It's true. Kraglin's kinda amazed – but he figures Yondu's liver-of-steel must've evolved over time, rather than being innate. Yondu shakes his head. “Nah, nah. M'going strong. C'mon man – one for ol' times' sake? We're rejoicin' 'bout my continued breathing, and... and cause my lil' boy's – hic – all grown up!”

“What, Quill?” Hogarth frowns, polishing his captive glass with more fervor. “Ain't he been grown for a decade or so now?” Then he squints, the squeak of his cloth around the moist rim ceasing for the first time since they walked into the place. “Hey, step up a bit wouldya? You look... different.”

Yondu rolls his eyes. His entire body gets involved in the motion; Kraglin has to wrap arms round his waist to keep him upright. “ _Course_ he's grown up now. This's some stupid time-travel shit -”

And hell, but they ain't the only patrons in this bar. Add to that that Kraglin wouldn't trust Hogarth to keep a secret if someone stapled his flabby, rubbery lips shut, and he has a very good reason to shut Yondu up.

“Boss,” he hisses, dragging Yondu towards an unpopulated corner. The Artifact digs into his spine, and he imagines the glow streaming through the thin cloth bag, broadcasting its presence to every hunter in search of a bounty or streetbrat with sticky fingers. “Ya can't go talkin' bout this, remember? Xandar's at stake.”

Yondu waves a hand. “Xandar _schmandar._ Whaddo I care 'bout a bunch of lily-livered, good-for-nothin'...” His voice trails off, gaze flitting up to a moth that winds ever-closing circles around the neon red light-strip set into the ceiling. When he snaps out of the trance, he's full _tabula rasa_. “Uh. What was I sayin'?”

“You were insulting Xandarians,” says Kraglin, a little stiffly. Sure, he's Hraxian through and through – but there's Xandarian-blood in his veins, from his mother's side. Back in the colonial era, when Xandarians frequently swung by Hrax to sniff the proverbial roses – proverbial because by that time, the planet had already been urbanized: mining rigs scouring deep into the earth and most of the population subsisting in smoggy poorly-lit tunnels – it wasn't uncommon to snag a native for a test-ride. Kraglin can’t trace his family tree further back than his immediate predecessors; it’s more of a family shrub.

Yondu shrugs, scratching his temple. Belches. Moves on. “So Peter's a big boy now, huh? In your time?”

Nothing for it. Kraglin nods. He's hoping that if he keeps Yondu talking, he'll forget about wanting more drinks – guy's blotto enough as-is.

“So tell me, Kraggles. Why's he runnin' alone? Or y'know, with his new friends. The _Gardens of the Galaxy -_ ”

“Guardians,” Kraglin corrects.

“They can call themselves the krutarkin' _Gonads of the Galaxy_ for all that I give a damn. I wanna know why Quill ain't with the Ravagers. Home. Where he belongs.”

There's no good answer for that. And a drunk Yondu is a punch-happy Yondu. That's been true for as long as Kraglin remembers. He settles on an answer that won't get him a fist in the gut – a non-commital grunt, a shrug. He sighs when Yondu screeches his stool out and wobbles to the bar.

“Whatever. Hoggie – two for the road?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comments are lovely!**


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: THIS FIC WILL SOON BE ON INDEFINITE HIATUS! I'm leaving it on a huge fucking cliffhanger, and I'm sorry in advance.**

Gamora weaves through the crowd. Her cybernetics discern velocity with far greater accuracy than the naked eye. They turn the oncoming miners into an assault course, an interlinking series of potential trajectories. This signal is transferred to her limbs, which carry her along the path calculated as least likely to result in collision. She moves with the grace of a dancer, long slim legs and wafting purple hair, and more than one face turns to watch her pass, softened with the reverence that usually accompanies beauty. 

No one dares stop her though.  _ Gamora _ is not a name unknown, or unfeared. While she may have cut ties with the Mad Titan, her reputation precedes her. Not as a Guardian, but as herself – the most dangerous woman in the galaxy.

Her grim resting face doesn't twitch as street-children flock by, casting wary glances over shoulders so thin that she can see the bones. No little hands pester at her for change – which is a shame, because Gamora is one of the few frequenters to this station who might be persuaded to give. She stalks on in silence. Where she's headed, only she knows. Whispers of her passage spiral out behind her, a breadcrumb trail of sightings, hoarded by Knowhere's churning gossip mill. But they can't predict where she will end up – and, truth be told, neither can Gamora.

She's thinking of it again. Of her life on Titan Crag. Of the two small blue girls who'd scurried after her, watching her with spooked red-and-black eyes, learning to bob demurely and tell their new father  _ yes sir, right away sir, it will be done. _ She remembers how Nebula's adoration of her soured to surly jealousy and defiance, as she constantly tried and failed to measure up. And she remembers how the other girl – the girl whose name she'd erased from her memory banks in an effort to forget – had screeched furiously and sprinted towards Thanos's podium, arrow poised to whistle out his eyes...

Gamora had caught her. And, when Thanos had ordered it, Gamora had made her pay.

Gamora doesn't need to breathe nearly as deeply or as often as her teammates. But at that thought she can't help but inhale, sharp and aching. The acrid scent of burnt oil from a nearby food stall rakes the delicate sensors in her nose. But for once, Gamora doesn't numb them. 

She's done so many things. Terrible things. Can saving Xandar really make up for that? Can saving  _ anyone? _

Gamora reminds herself, not for the first time, that this isn't about her. The whole point of heroism is to do good things for the sake of doing good things, not just because you  _ want  _ to be a better person – or worse yet, to be perceived as one. She's going to use whatever time she has left, however long or short that may be, to make a positive difference. It won't wipe away her past, or even soothe it when she lays in her cot on the  _ Milano  _ and feigns sleep at night. But it'll be  _ something. _

...If she's contemplating good deeds though, perhaps her first port of call should be to find out why the Ravagers are here, and stop them before anyone gets hurt.

Gamora conducts a sharp about-turn, twizzling on her heel with a swirl of violet hair. She moves swift but sure, sidestepping into a cluster of lush old miners who sprawl across a streetside bar at various stages of inebriation. They reek of liquor and Celestial bile. But Gamora can withstand their chuckles and leers, so long as they keep her shielded from the passing pirates. She takes mental note of whose fingers skirt her waist, who sneaks touches under pretence of a fumble and a clumsy trip. One eye on the Ravagers, ensuring that the man heading the fanned-out search party doesn't vanish into some slime-dripping borehole or another, she removes those same fingers with efficient, methodical grace.

Screams aren't uncommon on Knowhere. But these are of a particular pitch, volume, and suddenness that they cut through the hubbub of haggling merchants, squabbling urchins, stallowners plying customers to their shoddy establishments with promises of deals, and pickpockets and card-sharks plying money from their purses with knives and fast-dipping hands. The lead Ravager – Taserface was it? - turns. But by the time his eyes alight on the screams' source, Gamora is gone.

Taserface curls his lip at the drunk miners, whose blood mingles with the slop and spilt hops under their stools, treading on their own severed digits in a panicked attempt at fleeing. Then snaps the clasp on his holsters once more. He lifts one fist, knuckles to the sky, in the old Ravager signal for  _ fall in. _

He'd had plenty of volunteers for this mission – enough that he had to cherry pick, rather than drafting direct from his ranks. Half the reason is probably novelty – following Narblik-and-co.'s tale, there isn't a man, woman, or non-binary-aligned critter on his crew who doesn't want to lay eyes on the shrunk-down ex-admiral for his, her, or themselves. Those that ain't there to sate their curiosity have some personal vendetta they're whetting. They're the ones Taserface'll have to look out for: reign in when they get sloppy, sic em on the Guardians when the going gets tough. He may not be the biggest fan of sentiment, but vengeance goes miles towards motivation. Anything that can keep a Ravager fighting through an arrow through the gut is to be commended.

As for the rest? Well, their presence doesn't need no long-winded explanationing. They're pirates, plain and simple. And there's nothing pirates love more than a hunt.

 

* * *

“There ain't nothin' pirates love more'n booze,” Yondu informs Kraglin. He lives up to his own words: slouching onto his first mate's side and stealing a swig from his tankard. Kraglin's on water, having decided that one of them had better make a vague pretence at staying sober, being wanted men and all. Yondu doesn't notice. His words come out in a half-whistled slur that makes his arrow waggle on his hip and Kraglin jump so high his head clonks the ceiling. Yondu giggles. “Wh-whoops...”

Kraglin rubs his latest bruise, glowering. He steals back the water – although Yondu could do to chug a good deal more of it, and maybe have it emptied over his head for good measure. “Boss. C'mon. I think we oughta go back to the ship.”

“What? Why?”

In truth, Kraglin'd been expecting more of this venture. Bit of dancing, bit of groping, couple of whores each and then a few rounds together, just for old times' sake. This, sitting in the dingiest, dimmest-lit bars on Knowhere – and that's saying something, considering the competition – and watching Yondu get blotto? That ain't on nobody's bucket list.

And cap'n's got that look in his eyes that says he wants to be moving. Kraglin's not looking forwards to it. Yondu's been insisting that they uprooting to different bars every five -or-so drinks – sometimes he even hangs around long enough to pay his tab. But but he'd been unsteady on his feet the last time they relocated, needing to be dragged more than he actually walked. Kraglin, being far from the bulkiest guy around, boasts a smarting back. And now, thanks to Yondu's latest stunt, a sore crown. He sighs at his captain, nodding to the dull eyes, the dopy smile, the slumped posture. “You're drunk.”

“I swear to drunk I'm not – wait.” There's a pause, during which Yondu's sodden brain stitches together his mistake and decides it's  _ hilarious _ . Then there's laughter. Lots of it, and loud enough to get them looks from the other patrons – looks that range from mild amusement to glares. Kraglin doesn't like those.

He shrinks in his seat. He'd cajoled Yondu to the benches at the rear of this crummy bar, herding the man when he stumbled and heaving him bodily up when he tried to flop onto the poor barmaids, who weren't paid nearly enough to deal with an inebriated Ravager Admiral. Now, tucked away in the dankest, darkest corner, Yondu seems to be doing his utmost to undo every attempt Kraglin's made at keeping their profile low. “Heheh, c'mon Kraggles,  _ laugh  _ a lil'...”

“I'll laugh when we're safe on the ship,” comes the stony reply.

“Safe? 'M... 'M a  _ Ravager,  _ idiot. I don't need to be kept safe. M' the one who oughta be... who oughta be protectin' you...” His face falls. “An'... An' Petey, too.”

“Oh?” Kraglin's loathe to unbung this dyke. He suspects it might lead to talk about the past – or worse:  _ feelings. _ “Is that what this is about? You tryin' to drown how embarrassed you are in drink, jus' cause Quill's changed yer diapers?”

“He  _ what? _ ” Yondu gawps. Kraglin berates himself, because _ of course _ cap'n's memory doesn't go back that far. Yondu probably thought he'd only been showing up on their ship since he was a toddling tyke. A rugrat with a bright smile that blossomed all too easily – one Kraglin can't help but miss. Which is all kinds of unfair, especially as he'd spent a fair amount of his babysitting-duties sat cross-legged on the floor, one hand parked glumly under his chin, and wishing he had  _ his  _ captain back. But he'd forgotten just how infuriating Yondu could be in his twenties – that or it had never sunk in.

He'd been too wide-eyed and starstruck when he first joined the crew to realize that all the things he thought made Yondu cool (talking back, taking everything as a challenge, teasing people  _ just  _ to see how much it took to make them snap) actually made his future-captain a dick. According to Yondu's timeline, Kraglin was a kid. A kid old enough to kill, even to be trusted with not piloting the Ravager galleon in the sun – but a kid nevertheless.

Although perhaps, just perhaps, Yondu doesn't see past-him as a kid anymore.

“Hey Kraggles,” he murmurs. One hand splays on the tabletop for stability, as if it's wobbling as much as he is. His head hangs heavy, as if his neck has lost the strength to hold it up – but while the eyes that swim to Kraglin's are low-lidded, they're anything but tired. “You an' me gonna screw soon, ain't we?”

“Um.”

“How do I... Y'know. Pop the question?”

Kraglin stares. Takes a fortifying gulp of his water – and pulls a face, because the contents of Knowhere's taps were never intended for human consumption. “Are ya really askin' me for advice?” he manages, after a long minute spent remembering how to formulate words. “For chattin' me up?”

“Well.” Yondu's shrug is languid. It settles across his entire body like a warm blanket, muscles lax and slack as his grin. “Figured you'd know what you was talkin' about.”

The smirk creeps onto his face of its own accord. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Yondu lounges back in his seat, looking pleased with himself. He snags another drink from Kraglin's glass – this time, Kraglin doesn't begrudge him it. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he leans across the table with a smile that shows off a few too many metal teeth to be attractive, but which Kraglin can't help but mirror.. “Y'know what? I think I'm gonna climb on that soon as I get back to where I'm –  _ hic – _ y'know. Where m' supposed to be...”

“When you're supposed to be from,” Kraglin finishes. If he let the sentence hang any longer, Yondu's likely to get distracted and start nattering about something else – like the odd hush that's spreading over the bar, or the figure standing in the doorway, scanning its occupants. Kraglin's too focused on his captain to notice – which is stupid, in hindsight, and adds to the proof that sentiment is the bane of all mortal creatures. He pauses. Scrunches his eyebrows, and cocks his head at Yondu quizzically. “What do you mean, climb on that?”

Yondu smirks, wobbling the glass to his lips for another messy pull that sees most of the water splashing down his front. Heavens know how many Kraglins he's seeing right now, but he somehow manages to stare, without a shred of subtlety, at his crotch.

Kraglin's cheeks are bared to open flames. “Oh,” he says faintly. “ _ That.”  _ Then shakes himself, retrieving his glass – and trying not to shiver when Yondu's fingers, cooled by the drink, slide past his own. “Boss, you an' I both know that yer gonna get home and conk out.”

Yondu opens his mouth – some catty reply or another formulating through the liquor-saturated sludge of his greymatter. He never gets to put it into words. Because at that moment, Taserface spots them.

“Udonta! You stinky blue mongrel, I knew we'd find ya here -”

“Tazie?” Yondu, of course, is delighted. “That you, Tazie? Wow, that face ain't aged well.”

Around them, the more sober of their drinking buddies have began a fast sidle for the exit. Some drag less-upright compatriots; most are left to their fate. Ravagers swarm into the small establishment. The bartender, who'd been reaching for one of the many pistols stashed around his counter, meeps and ducks under the relative shelter of the booze-stained top when Half-nut swings himself to perch atop it, picking rotten meet from his teeth with the edge of a razor-shank. Gef's besides Taserface, Scrote besides him. And there, leaning from the dappled, sickly light cast by the doorway, are Narblik and Wretch. Whole gang's here. What a welcome. Why, if he didn't know the danger, Kraglin'd be flattered.

He doesn't finger the knife up his sleeve. It's too early to give away that tell. He sneers at Taserface, rising to stand and pushing Yondu behind him – who's still chuckling, as if the empty mic on the bar's cramped and ramshackle stage is being manned by a comedian only he can hear. Dammit, Kraglin  _ knew  _ this was a terrible idea. Yondu's too sloshed to whistle, and the edge of the artifact digs into his ribs, a constant reminder of what could happen should this go badly.

“What do you want,” he asks, low and menacing.

Taserface's pistols skate between them – Kraglin to Yondu, to Kraglin and back again. “The doobrie in yer purse,” he says. Kraglin bristles – but decides at the last moment that now isn't the time to insist it's a knapsack. “Oh yeah. I know what that is. Was in our old vault, weren't it? It's that thing Quill stole, back when Yondu said he was gonna gut him for real – although as usual, he was too damn soft.”

A nasty chuckle sweeps around the circle. It's hard to believe Kraglin had been breaking bread with this people – or helping dissect unwanted hostages with them – not a month ago. “So you best hand Udonta over too. All of the boys want a piece of him – 'specially given he's so young an' spry now, and all.”

Yondu hiccups. Burps. Covers his mouth belatedly and giggles before treating Taserface to a sunny smile. “Aw, Tazie. Bet you say that to all the Centaurians.”

If he pretends to consider the offer, that'll buy them a few more seconds. To what? Rustle up a plan? Spot an escape route? For Peter to find them? Or maybe just a little while longer to breathe the hot, garbage-sour stink of Knowhere air. “What about me?” Kraglin asks.

Taserface shrugs. “Don't matter to me. You walk.” As if. He'll have a plasma bolt severing his spinal cord the second he turns around.

Peter and co. have yet to make their appearance. Maybe it's knife-time after all. Kraglin draws them in a rapid sweep; two sharp blades, slim and utilitarian as their wielder, the only irregularity along their length the narrow guard that separates knife from handle. The glint off their edges is almost as bright as that off his bared teeth. “No way in hell,” he growls.

Taserface practically  _ purrs.  _ “Oh, I was hopin' you'd say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is COMPLETELY unedited because I'm dum**

**Author's Note:**

> **Leave me comments, people**
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